TMNT: Days to Come
by tmntpunx
Summary: 2K3 verse, SAINW continuity. Casey's death has brought Angel back into Raphael's life, but can he overcome his haunting sense of duty to his fallen best friend and the wife he left behind to find happiness at the end of the world? Rated M for language, adult themes and grief.
1. Chapter 1

Raphael yanked the oil drain plug from his bike and liquid midnight oozed into the dirty pan below. The turtle sighed and wiped his fingers on a rag he kept in the pocket of his bomber jacket. Unfortunately gloves didn't come in mutant turtle sizes. He knew oil was carcino-whatever, but it wasn't like he was gonna live long enough to get cancer anyway. No one got cancer anymore. The end of the world got always you first.

The turtle sat on the floor while he waited for the oil to drain. He considered putting something on the stereo, but decided against it. He wasn't exactly interested in advertising his whereabouts. Not tonight, anyway. Instead, he pulled one of Casey's cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit it up. The turtle took a drag and the cigarette crackled, its fire lighting up the silence.

The garage was empty save for Raphael and his bike, and that suited him just fine. Things had been uneasy around base since he returned from his last mission. Last _botched_ mission. No one talked to him about it, but he saw them from the corner of his eye looking at him while he walked down the corridor. He saw the not so subtle glances over their shoulders while he was sitting in the mess hall. Raphael exhaled smoke sharply from his nostrils. He fuckin' saw it all.

So he retreated to the place he and Casey had shared. They had always worked on their bikes together in the garage. It was like, their _thing_. Casey had always given him shit about how he babied his bike. Raphael had always rolled his eyes and tell Casey to laugh it up; they'd see who was laughin' when he was stuck on the side of the road with a munched valve train. But Casey had never really cared about any of that shit. Casey just wanted to ride.

Raphael had thought about it; just riding right out of the compound and never looking back. But he knew he wouldn't make it more than a mile without being blown to smithereens by a score of the Shredder's legion bots. He and his bike would be nothin' but a pile of ash on the side of the empty road. Not to mention he would probably give the coordinates of the base away. The ever watchful legions did not sleep. They did not stop. They would never stop.

The turtle couldn't even remember the last time he actually rode his bike. Was it when people had actually lived in New York? He flicked the butt of his cigarette gently and ashes drifted to the ground. Whenever it was, it was too long ago. He and Casey used to talk about it; what they were gonna do when the end of the world was over. Riding their bikes way over the speed limit down the highway was always on the top of that list. They were gonna fly.

The thought almost made Raphael smile.

He hadn't ridden in years, but he still kept up his bike. Changed the oil. Checked the tire pressure. Lubed the housing tubes. It had become a ritual, rather than a necessity. He had never been any good at meditating, but working on his bike always made him feel calm. Even if the bike was fucked because he rode it too hard, braked too hard, turned too hard and ate it - there was a comfort in knowing that with the right parts, and a couple of hours, and more than a couple of beers, he could fix it. Make it right again.

Smoke rose slowly around Raphael's face and he inhaled, savoring the painfully familiar turtle hadn't been in the garage since before that night, before that mission. But he was tired of everyone staring at him. He took another drag. At least in the garage he could be alone.

Something screeched behind him. Raphael's head jerked back to look over his shoulder, heart hammering beneath his plastron. There was someone standing in the doorway with a long, lean arm braced up against the metal rolling door. She tossed her long, purple ponytail back over her shoulder.

So much for being alone.

Angel sauntered across the garage wearing a jumpsuit unbuttoned down to the waist; the top and sleeves slung around her hips, tied in a loose knot over her pelvis. The tank top she wore under her jumpsuit left little to the imagination, plunging below the sharp lines of her clavicles and clinging to the curves of her body. Raphael forced his gaze back to his bike. If you got it, flaunt it. He wasn't gonna judge. But he wasn't gonna give her the satisfaction of gawkin' over her neither.

"Since when do you smoke?" she asked, her naturally plum lips turned up into a slight grin.

Raphael merely grunted and turned back to his bike.

He could hear the heels of her boot getting closer and closer as she made her way across the garage, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of watching her do it. Raphael had watched Angel go from a tween to a teen to a grown ass woman, and all the ways in which she had filled out made him more uncomfortable than he was willing to admit. He had tried to talk about it with Casey once. Casey just said he was being gross.

They had been tight, Case and Angel. They had worked out together constantly. Casey had invited Raphael to join them on more than one occasion, but he could never bring himself to say yes. When he saw Angel in her workout gear, the well defined lines of her musculature drawing his eyes down her body, he felt just like Casey said. Gross. Seeing her in those short shorts and that damn sports bra made him feel like he did the first Master Splinter pulled out a dirty mag he thought he had hid underneath his bed. Like he was lookin' at something he shouldn't. So Angel got workouts with Casey and Raphael got garage time. That suited him just fine.

Above him, she cocked her head to the side and her purple hair spilled over her shoulders. "Oil change?"

Raphael grunted in acknowledgement. She knew it was an oil change. She probably knew the minute she walked in; you could hear the oil gushing out of the bike from across the empty garage. She knew bikes, and cars, and thanks to the apocalypse - she knew tanks, too. Angel was the first one to let everybody know how well she knew her way around an engine. So why was she playin' dumb?

The turtle's eyes narrowed behind his red mask. Was she really gonna play this game with him? He popped up, grabbed a wrench, and set to work on removing the oil filter. Maybe if he kept working she would leave. Or sit down. Or something. Anything would be better than her standing behind him in silence, watching him. Judging him. They both knew she could do an oil change faster than him with her eyes closed. But this wasn't about speed; it was about serenity, damnit.

"I just thought -" she began. Shoved her hands in her pants pockets. "Haven't seen you in a while. Are you, like, okay? Do you wanna talk about it?"

Raphael kept his eyes on his bike. "Does it look like I wanna talk about it?" he growled, trying to keep his cigarette between his lips. He gave the filter one last good twist with the wrench. When she didn't snap back at him, he almost sighed. Remorse rose up in him slowly, like the smell of something rotting in the merciless heat of the afternoon sun. He shouldn't have snapped at her. But what'd she expect? She knew he had never been good with words. Or feelings.

The turtle's eyes darted up briefly from his work to snatch a glimpse of her. He expected her to have her arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked, don't fuck with me scrawled across her face. But instead she just looked sad. He looked back at his bike, but he could still see her, sliding into view in his peripheral vision. As she lowered herself down beside him on the floor, Raphael felt his entire body stiffen.

He should have just total her to fuck off the moment she came through that door. He should have told her to piss off; take a hike; that she could eat him. He didn't want to hold hands, or have a prayer circle, or talk about his fuckin' feelings. He wanted to be alone and to work on his goddamn bike in peace. There was nothing comforting about some girl bargin' in to his and Casey's sacred space, actin' like she owned the place. Actin' like she knew what he was going through. Or how much he hurt.

"He was my friend too, you know," she said quietly.

"Yeah, well, he's gone now!" Raphael snapped, his cigarette falling from his mouth as he reeled back from his bike. His body opened up as he leapt upwards, taut, muscled arms flexing - and the wrench flew from his hand across the garage. "And no matter how much we talk or don't talk, he ain't comin' back!" he roared.

The wrench clattered on the floor.

Raphael's shoulders heaved, his chest rising and falling beneath his jacket with deep, furious breaths.

"So what's the fuckin' point," he spat.

The turtle gritted his teeth; shoved his fists back into his pockets. He wanted to throttle something. Punch someone. Something. Anything. Feel someone's teeth break against his knuckles. He wanted to hurl himself off a rooftop. He wanted to wake up so black and blue he couldn't feel anything but the bruises. So much for serenity.

"Don't be an asshole, Raph," Angel said flatly, looking up at him from the floor. Then she looked away; shrugged her shoulders and flipped her hair out her face, like she didn't give a shit. "I mean, Michelangelo warned me that you were gonna be a dick, but come _on_."

Of course. Michelangelo. Michel-fuckin-angelo. Of course Michelangelo would be the one to rat him out. Since he lost his arm all he did was sit up in that security control room all day, watching the CCTV vid feeds. But at least he was still around. Donatello had vanished. Splinter was dead. Leonardo left because he couldn't handle being a fuck up for once in his perfect bushido prince life. Michelangelo was still around, but that didn't make Raphael feel any less alone. They were both still here. But it didn't make them any less broken.

"You barge in here while I'm workin' all "let's cry it out 'n talk about our feelings" and _I'm_ the asshole?" Raphael snarled.

The cigarette had fallen to the floor, so he crushed it under his heel. The last dying ember of the smoke flared up under his skin and he stifled the urge to scream; to tell her to go fuck herself; to tell her to leave. Would Casey have thought he was being an asshole, too? Probably. Casey had always had a soft spot for Angel. Maybe it was because she was the little sister he never had. Or maybe it was because her grandma used to load him up with chuchifritos. Whatever the reason, Casey had cared about Angel, and he had wanted Raphael to care about her too. Raphael exhaled angrily through his nostrils. But Angel wasn't a kid anymore. She could take care of her fucking self.

"Whaddya want, Angel?" he growled.

Why had she even fucking bothered? Where was she the blood stained dawn he had brought Casey's body back to base, wrapped in a dirty sheet? Where was she when he told April what had happened? He had had to confess his failure, alone. How dare she waltz in now, weeks after they had put his best friend in the radiation-soaked dirt, and ask Raphael how he was, when he couldn't be anything but ugly, and angry, and all he wanted was to be alone.

"Maybe I'm tired of being alone," she said. She looked up at him with wounded brown eyes, and for a second, he almost felt bad. "And maybe you're not the only one who's hurtin', Raph. You ever think about that?"

Raphael paused; shocked by how quickly his red hot anger was cooled by her somberness. He chuffed and shrugged his shoulders, but sat down on the floor beside her. They sat next to one another, not talking, staring at the wall. Raphael watched the oil drain into the pan, black and slick and insufferably loud in the silence.

This is why he didn't want to talk about it; because it ripped him open, left him exposed and angry as a new wound. The actual wounds from that night still weren't even all that healed. Scores of soft, pink lines marked the skin of his shoulders; his arms and thighs. The jacket only covered the ones above the waist, but it made him feel…less naked. Like he wasn't so much of a fuckin' freak. He could walk like them; talk like them; wear clothes like them. No big deal. At the end of the world, they were all just waiting in line for their number to be up anyway.

"Do _you_ wanna talk about it?" he asked. Maybe if she got to talk about herself and _her_ feelings, he could get back to work. Maybe she would realize this was all a bunch of bullshit and leave. And then he wouldn't have to think about Casey. Or her. Or the way she smelled; like the engine oil under her fingernails and the baby powder in her hair. Shampoo was hard to come by at the end of the world.

His eyes drifted back to his bike.

"I dunno," Raphael thought he heard her shrug. "I guess I just keep thinking that one day I'll wake up and - and the world won't be this ugly dried up place. And all my friends won't be dead anymore."

Denial. Raphael couldn't remember all the stages of grief; he rarely made it past the second one. But he knew the first one was denial. And she was in denial. Maybe they were, too, all those nights they spent, talkin' about what they were gonna do when the end of the world was over. Maybe denial was what they all needed to make it through just one more day.

He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Angel's knees were tight to her chest, arms crossed over them. She looked so damn sad. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen her sad before. Compromised - yeah. Afraid - sure. Angry - all the goddamn time. But sad was new. She caught him staring at her. Shit. He cast his gaze back to the bike. The oil was still draining.

"You shoulda run it for a few minutes before you started," Angel said, her voice soft but still matter-of-fact. "Warm oil drains faster."

Raphael rolled his eyes. "Fuck you," he mumbled in the most neutral tone he could muster, though he was silently wishing he had thought of that. She was way better at this than he was. "For the record, I ain't exactly in a hurry."

"Whatever, dude," Angel raised a finely arched, pierced purple brow. "See if I try to help _you_ again."

The turtle stood and began aimlessly rummaging around in his tool box, ignoring her. Maybe if he stopped talking, she would just go. So he picked up wrenches, put them back, rolled them around, felt enormously stupid and awkward.

"...you seen her lately?"

"Nope," he grunted.

He didn't want to talk about her either.

Angel wasn't the first to ask if he had seen their fearless Rebel Leader. He hadn't. She hadn't spoken to Raphael since he had brought what was left of her husband's corpse back to base. Angel wouldn't have believed him if he told her what had happened that day. How she did not speak; how she did not cry. Like she had accepted Casey's death years ago, before she even sent him into battle. Like it was inevitable. He knew it was. But still, he thought she was going to cry. The turtle sniffed diffidently. He had.

He didn't want to talk about her. Or what they did that night, before they buried his best friend's body. Because she had wanted to smother the ache and the anguish and the guilt. Because he'd always wanted to. Because every time Casey told him about that thing she did with her tongue and her hands, he had wished it was him on the other end of it. He did not want to talk about her, and he did not want to think about her, or what they had done in the dark.

It was a mistake.

They hadn't spoken since. It had been weeks, and no one had seen her. While they licked their wounds the Shredder and his legion bots marched on. Dug deeper. Got closer. And all he could bring himself to do was smoke a dead man's cigarettes and smother how he really felt with the ritual of repairing a relic from a past they were never going to make it back to.

"Well, she has to talk to us sooner or later," Angel leaned back on her elbows. Her neck lolled back, and she looked up at the ceiling, into the glaring fluorescent lights flickering above them. "Like, I can't believe that even _you_ haven't seen her."

Even after his outburst, she was still trying to get him to open up to her. It was admirable. Or commendable, or whatever. But it wasn't gonna work. He didn't want to talk about April. Or Casey. He just wanted to work on his bike and be left alone. But Angel was stubborn. Always had been.

"If you're gonna stay, make yourself useful," Raphael grunted.

Angel glanced at him with a quizzical look on her face. The turtle set the oil drain plug and an o-ring down beside her. She shook her head and smiled, but she rolled the rubber o-ring over the ridges of the plug anyway. It was easier for her, with her small, slender fingers. He always dropped the damn o-rings.

Raphael crouched next to his bike and began to screw the new oil filter on. He didn't like her lookin' over his shoulder. The turtle was suddenly acutely aware of how huge and ungainly his fingers were. He tried to wipe away the grime where the older filter had been, and just felt like he was pokin' around down there blindly like some sort of virgin. He fumbled with the filter, dropped it, picked it up again in a hurry. He could feel her eyes on his shell, and he was just relieved she could not see his face.

"You gonna fill that with oil?" Angel cocked her head to the side, pointed at the filter. "You know a cold start's shit on your engine."

"Christ, Angel!" he dropped his hands to his sides in exasperation. " _You_ wanna do this oil change?"

"Where's the fun in that?" she grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. "Maybe I like to watch."

The turtle groaned. That might have actually made him uncomfortable, once. But he wasn't that inexperienced idiot anymore, so he just turned his shell to her and kept working. He took her advice and dabbed the new filter with oil. After he screwed it onto the bike, his fingers were slick with it. Raphael rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in an endless circular motion, the way girls liked. His tail swelled a little thinking about it.

The turtle snatched up a rag and wiped his hands off. Was she tryin' to make him uncomfortable, or was it just a joke? People made jokes like that all the time, right? She and Casey must have messed around like this. Like she was just one of the guys. Or maybe she just missed him, like he missed him. Or maybe she just wanted a distraction.

All of a sudden, Angel was holding something up between two fingers. The drain plug. He reached for it, accepting it gingerly. His fingers brushed against hers and he wondered why she had come, even when she knew he was just going to be an asshole.

His fingers curled around the plug. "Thanks."

"No problem," she tucked a strand of purple hair behind her ear.

He wondered if anyone had ever told her how beautiful she was.

Angel grew up in underground bunkers, in hangars and gyms and crisis situation rooms; she never got to go to dances, or get corsages, or have boys tell her she was beautiful in the backseats of their cars after the sun went down. Beauty was a luxury none of them could afford anymore. Like love songs, and poetry, and shampoo. But somehow, she was still so damn beautiful. Raphael cleared his throat.

April had never made him feel this way; all pissed off and riled up at the same time. Probably because she had always been just out of reach. April - she had always been beautiful. She was a woman when they met her. They had all fantasized about her; wanted her; thought about her when they thought they were alone. Even Leo. It wasn't weird. It just was. Raphael had always loved her. But it was was never going to be anything more than what it was; unrequited.

But Angel - Angel was a little girl in a training bra that he and Casey caught over and over again sneaking out of her window late at night after her grandma went to bed. Angel was their little sister. Angel was a kid that did shit like joining the Purple Dragons and letting her friends pierce her face. She was a woman, now, all long legs and full lips. But even if she wasn't that little girl anymore, he wasn't going to be another one of her bad decisions. Like the Dragons, and that second eyebrow ring that had got her grounded, he knew they would only end badly. And he wasn't willing to lose anyone else.

"So. Uh," Raphael rubbed the back of his head. "You wanna help me with this oil change?"

Angel leaned back on her elbows. "What am I getting out of this?"

"Gettin' to be smug about this old asshole asking you for help?"

She smiled up at him. "Sounds good to me."

Raphael gave her a sideways glance. "You're s'posed t'say I'm not old."

Angel snorted, then chuckled; "You wish."

He was old. His back hurt every morning when he rolled out of his bunk, and his knees ached with every step he took. Years of death defying leaps and falls and botched landings were starting to catch up with him. He was only twenty-eight. The turtle sighed; he extended a three fingered hand to her, and she took it. Her fingers wrapped around his, and he felt his stomach lurch a little. Raphael pulled Angel up from the floor, and suddenly she was so near that he had to stop himself from pulling her in closer. Instead, he only tilted his head to the side.

"Funnel's over there."

"Yeah, yeah," she brushed her hands off on the pants of her jumpsuit and sauntered to the workbench behind them. Her long purple ponytail swayed behind her, emulating the swing of her hips.

Raphael glanced at her over his shoulder, letting his eyes linger on her. His mouth curled up in a slight smile. This time he didn't mind giving her the satisfaction of watching.

 **A/N:** _This story was prompted by a late night conversation with a friend when I was in a major slump with my ongoing Apritello story Precious (Fragile) Things. So major thanks to princessebee, who provided ample support, encouragement and feedback as this story progressed. She even beta read the damn thing. Thanks babe._


	2. Chapter 2

Raphael was poking at his breakfast when Angel slid up next to him at the table.

"Mmmm," Angel dropped her tray beside his. "Whatever this is, it looks nasty."

The turtle smiled despite himself as her tray clattered on the plastic surface of the mess hall table. He had been moving his protein paste around his plate since he sat down, and somehow it only seemed to be gaining mass. The lump of colorless goo looked even bigger than it did when he sat down, even though he was sure he had had several bites since then.

"Well you know what they say," she smiled at him. "Only the best for the rebel forces' finest."

"Ha," Raph chuckled dryly. "Right."

He hardly felt like he qualified as one of the finest in the force. Not after what had happened to Casey. But it was sweet of her to say. After Casey's death, Raphael had taken up the habit of eating alone in his bunk. He had a box of staple meal replacement bars under his bed; they were about as good as whatever was on his tray, but they were dry as hell. The only thing they had going for them was that they were easier to swallow. The protein paste went down slow and slimey. But at least the cafeteria had coffee. If you could take it black and watered down, it wasn't that bad.

Raphael wasn't sure what had prompted him to break his routine that morning. Maybe after the last night with Angel in the garage, being alone just didn't seem all that appealing anymore. So he had sat at the table, and waited.

But now that she was sitting beside him, he didn't have a fucking clue what to say.

"Workin' on anythin' good today?" he asked between sloppy, dripping forkfuls of whatever breakfast was.

"Mmmm I think our Fearless Leader found us some more M1 Abramses, so I'll probably be workin on one'a those." Angel blew on her coffee. "I was _hoping_ for some M1A2s since they've got better data buses, but whatever. Beggars can't be choosers."

The turtle nodded sagely, trying to look like he knew what she was talking about. He assumed tanks. It was probably tanks. He took another bite and tried not to think about why whatever their breakfast was felt so wet going down, but still made his tongue feel so damn dry. Raphael took a swig of coffee. It was so hot he could hardly taste it; just the way he liked his coffee. Since the end of the world anyway.

"You wanna come?"

"Huh?" Raphael licked his lips.

"Wanna come to the shop?" Angel was pushing the protein paste around her breakfast tray. "With me?"

The turtle hunched his shoulders over the table; trained his eyes on his coffee cup. One night workin' on bikes was one thing, but breakfast and hangin' out afterwards - that was too much. Sure, he wanted to see her; he wasn't gonna bullshit himself about that. That's why he came. But this could not become a regular thing. Even though he had laid in bed afterwards, thinking about her.

So he sat at a table no one else would sit at, pushing a pile of flavorless goop around - when he could have eaten a goddamn protein bar and been done with it - and he waited.

He didn't want to admit how his pulse picked up when she sat down beside him. Her unbuttoned jumpsuit slung around her waist, revealing just a flash of her warm brown skin where her tank top ended. The crest of her hips jutted just barely above the spot where the arms of her jumpsuit were cinched around her waist. Christ. Why did she have to grow up to be so goddamn good looking. And nice. And good at fixin' bikes. Raphael stifled a miserable sigh. This was only going to end badly.

"Come to the shop with me." She looked up at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Beats sittin' around bein' a sad sack by yourself all day."

Raphael snorted. "Says who."

She socked him in the shoulder and he nearly spilled scalding coffee down his bomber jacket. "Christ Angel -" he sputtered, holding his shaking coffee cup out over the table. Coffee splashed over the edge of the mug, burning his fingers. "Shit!"

"Says me," she gingerly blew on her coffee again.

Raphael shook the coffee off his hand. He sighed. Knew he shouldn't have filled it up so damn high. He was beginning to regret getting out of bed.

"Raphael. I'm not gonna ask you again."

Somethin bout the way she said his name - every syllable enunciated in exasperation - made him feel all tingly and pissed off at the same time. Raphael rolled his eyes. " _Fine_."

"I'm doin' you a favor," she chuckled through a mouthful of protein paste. "Don't act so pissed off about it."

"Don't you know I'm always pissed off?" Raphael grinned at her, and suddenly she didn't seem so fuckin' full of herself. She tried to hide it by taking a drink of her coffee, but he could see her warm brown cheeks getting a little pink. He took a long, slow sip of his and allowed himself to feel more than a little self-satisfied.

"Finish your joe," (too much repetition of 'coffee' plus it sounds cute) she said stoutly, giving him a hard slap on the shell. "We gotta go."

The hangar doors drew back to reveal an enormous concrete room, lit with harsh lights glaring from a ceiling Raphael could not see. Rebel crew members scurried from one end of the hangar to the other, weaving in and out of the maze of battered tanks. It had been years since they had engaged the Shredder's forces in artillery combat, but when the time came, he knew April wanted them to be ready.

Most of the combat runs were guerrilla style: ambushes, raids, hit-and-runs. Sabotage. Sabotage was Raphael's specialty. He was accustomed to undercover ops, sliding in undetected. When it was the four of them, rolling in guns blazing had always been Raph's style. But this was bigger than the four of them, now. Even if only three of them remained. Raphael's brow creased in agitation. Might as well be only two, with Leonardo taking off the way he had. He crossed his arms over his plastron. Leo would come back, eventually.

Something told Raphael that if they were going to die in this fight, they would all die together.

"Ready to work on some tanks?"

Raphael blinked back to reality, where Angel was standing beside him with a smile on her face and hands on her hips.

"Who said anythin' about me workin on tanks?" he chuffed.

"If you're gonna stay, might as well make yourself useful," she shrugged.

"I see what you did there," Raph almost smiled. Throwing his own words back at him. Well played. "Very clever."

Angel only shrugged again, and when she began to walk across the concrete floor, Raphael followed. She showed him to a work desk covered in diagrams. He stiffened when she looked up at him, full lips curled up into a confident smirk, explaining everything he needed to do. Raphael blinked. There were words coming out of her mouth that he hadn't even heard before. The startup manual hit his open palm with a thunk, and he tried not to think about how his hand slid over hers; the way her soft skin felt on his calloused palm.

Rolling the startup manual in his hands, he watched her walk away, her hips swaying with each self-possessed step. One of the younger girls darted in front of Angel and she paused. He couldn't hear what she was saying over the sound of roaring engines and sputtering exhaust pipes, but she was ticking something off on her fingers. Angel nodded, explained something, and the girl nodded and turned on her heel; off to do whatever Angel told her to do. When Angel disappeared behind a tank, he let himself smile. She had come into her own, and he had been so far up his own ass he hadn't even noticed.

Raphael hitched his feet on the ladder, pulling himself up the side of the tank. He probably could've jumped up on top to climb in, but he didn't want to be a show off. No need to draw any more attention to himself than he already was, just by being there. He had seen how some of the crew members paused when he walked into the hangar with Angel. As he swung himself up over the top of the tank he hoped none of them were getting the wrong idea. Word got around fast down below. Why she would even want to be seen with him after what had happened with Casey, he had no fucking clue. But she did. She asked him to come. She gave him a job. He was beginning to think she wanted something more. Maybe he was just overthinking it, especially since all she asked him to do was look over the new tanks.

She wanted him to check the startup functions. Press buttons. Pull levers. Make sure the lights came on. Take notes so the technicians didn't have to waste time troubleshooting. That sort of shit. He wasn't sure this was much better than sitting alone in his bunk all day, but he was willing to indulge her, at least this once. She had helped him with his bike, after all.

The turtle eyed the tank hatch incredulously. It was so damn narrow; obviously not built with mutant ninja turtles in mind. His mouth flattened into a cantankerous frown. Was he even gonna fit in this thing? Raphael lowered himself down into the hatch, taking each step slowly, deliberately, mindful of every rung of the ladder below him. He slid in, the narrow hatch just barely accommodating his shell. When his feet hit the floor of the tank, he sighed with relief.

Raphael scanned the control panel in front of him and cringed. It was an endless landscape of blinking buttons and knobs, dials and screens. Engines he could do, but computers had never been his thing. Computers were Don's thing. He frowned. Don would've had no problem getting a tank up and running. Probably would've even thought it was fun. But Don wasn't there. Raphael's fingers curled around the instruction manual in his jacket pocket. Ten years later, and it still hurt like hell. He thought he was gonna get over it; that _they_ could get over it. But they never did. Probably never would.

His hands were already clammy; his fingers sticking to the pages of the startup manual as he unrolled it. Raphael took a deep breath. Might as well get this over with.

#####

By the time he was on his third tank Raphael was hot, sweaty, and thoroughly pissed off. He knew he wasn't exactly the "smart one" of the bunch, but he also knew damn well he could do more than push buttons and pull levers. He didn't leave his bunk to be Angel's fuckin' helper monkey; there were plenty of other younger (more flexible) guys (and girls) who would be happy to cram themselves into a cockpit for her. He perched on top of a tank and allowed himself to watch her, just for a minute. She was weaving in and out of the crew; laughing, smiling, working. He was sure any of them would happily share an evening and a home brew with her. So why had she dragged him out of the garage and back into her life?

He told himself it was because he was the closest thing she could get to Casey. Sure, the rest of the crew had known Casey. Everybody on base knew Casey. But with them, it was different. They had grown up together. Survived together. It had been years since he and Angel had had anything that passed for an actual conversation, but she chatted him up and gave him shit as if no time had passed at all. As if he hadn't made it a point to purposefully ignore her in the halls; or offer no more acknowledgement of her presence at the dinner table than a flat, ugly grunt. She had become a whole new person, but he was just the same old asshole.

Raphael wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. What he wouldn't give for a cold beer. Not the shit that people brewed in closets down below. He wanted real beer. Tecate in a can. Nothin' beat a cold tecate on a hot day. The turtle's shoulders slumped, and he sighed as he lowered himself back into the tank. The sooner he finished checking the start up systems, the sooner he could get out of this sauna.

The turtle turned back to the console, his face flat. He glanced back at the startup manual that was becoming damp and wrinkled in his hand. Wrapping his fingers around the throttle control, Raphael leaned forward, putting his weight into it. Nothing happened.

"You gotta be kidding me!" he snapped.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was that she didn't think he could do anything more than push buttons. Whatever it was, he fucking lost it. His wide, calloused hand slapped the console and a harsh twang ricocheted off the metal walls of the tank cockpit. The turtle gritted his teeth as the sound reverberated off the metal walls.

"Everything okay down there?"

Raphael shifted his weight in the driver's chair. Angel was on top of the tank. His fingers curled around the manual. Without thinking, he shrunk back from the light streaming down from the open hatch. What the hell was he supposed to tell her? That he wasn't even smart enough to push the buttons and pull the levers and make the damn tank turn on? That he couldn't do anything right? He could hear Donatello snickering at the back of his mind. But at least after Don was done laughin' at him, he lent a hand. He used to, anyway. Now Raphael was on his own.

"Raph?"

"Yeah," the turtle sighed. She was so damn stubborn. "Everythin's fine," he replied gruffly.

Angel dropped into the tank, warm brown skin glistening with sweat. Specks of dust danced around her in the halo of artificial light streaming in from the hatch above. He remembered how things used to hang in the light of the sun like that, and for an instant it was like being above, under the sun. Like the world had never ended, and it was just the two of them.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove, she glanced at him. "How's the tank?"

"It's a piece of shit," he grunted, flopping back in his chair in resignation. "Won't even turn on."

She laughed as she shoved her gloves into her back pocket. He watched her, smiling, laughing, running her fingers through her hair. She was so close he could almost taste her. Raphael took a deep breath, breathing her in; the sweat and the engine oil and the undercurrent of baby powder beneath it all. It made him feel like two beers on an empty stomach.

"Let's see what we can do about that," she smiled.

As she scooted closer Raphael got an undeniable reminder of why he had spent so many years adamantly avoiding her. He liked her. He liked being around her, and he liked that she wanted to be around him. He liked it too much, and he knew nothing good could come of it. At first it would be all furtive glances; stolen moments in supply closets and late night rendezvous. It would be all laughing and kissing and sweating until it wasn't. Until he started making promises he could never keep, because he was in love with someone else. Someone who would never love him the way he loved her. But it was better that way. Safer.

Angel was dangerously close.

Christ.

"This throttle ain't respondin'," Raphael gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

Angel's eyes squinted incredulously. "Have you tried jimmying it a little?"

"Well yeah, but - "

"Let me try," she insisted.

She slid up next to the driver's chair, leaning around Raphael without so much as another word. Suddenly, he felt incredibly naked. He was overexposed without his jacket. It was crumpled on the floor beside him. He thought about reaching for it, making a last ditch effort to avoid this encounter entirely, but it was too late. She was too close.

He opened his mouth to protest, tried to squeeze out of the chair, get out of her way, but she did not stop. Angel only leaned in closer, her hair falling over her shoulders, brushing across his plastron. Her hand wrapped around the throttle and squeezed. When nothing happened, her face fell flat. She tried again, leaning in harder. Raphael tried to make himself smaller in the chair; she was so damn close he could see the beads of sweat shining on her chest. That was the jewelry she wore; sweat and blood and engine oil.

"Come _on_ ," she grunted, putting her weight into the throttle again.

That was when she lost her footing and fell. Raphael's eyes widened behind his mask as she tumbled forward, collapsing in a heap in his lap. The throttle shifted into gear with a clicking sound, and the console lit up as the tank came to life. The tank rumbled around them. Raphael felt his entire body stiffen, becoming rigid beneath hers. He flattened his shoulders and pushed his shell up against the back of the chair, but there was nowhere to go. She had him pinned.

And then she looked up at him, and their eyes met. Raphael wanted to look away, to look at the console, to look at his feet, to look at anything but her. This was so cliche it hurt. But there she was, in his lap, looking up at him, lips parted; waiting. Fuck.

Did she want him to kiss her? Is that what she wanted? Angel looked up at him, expectant. Raphael's pulse quickened; he could feel his cheeks starting to burn, and he hoped to whatever passed for a god these days that she couldn't see him blushing in the low light. The tank was still rumbling beneath them.

She bit her lip.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her. His heightened sense of smell had gotten him into trouble more times than it had gotten him out of it. Living below ground in the warren with its old, rattling ventilation system that didn't do much more than push stale air from one room to another, it was more of a curse than it was a blessing. But when he was next to her, it was wonderful. There was something so subtle about her scent. Understated and alluring all at the same time.

Raphael shrunk back, his entire body tense, trying to force himself to think about anything other than the way she smelled. Anything other than the way her hands felt on his thighs. He knew he had to do something; _say_ something. The turtle gulped. She was still between his legs.

Angel reached for the throttle and gave it a good yank, and everything got real quiet. Raphael forced himself to breathe.

"You've got some shit on your face," he grunted.

He watched as Angel blinked in confusion, and felt a surge of confidence. Just enough to get a little cocky. Maybe that wasn't what she had expected. Or wanted. Raphael smirked. He had never been one to try and predict what other people wanted. It was a losing game. Raphael just did his thing. So he licked his thumb and wiped it across her cheek, and he didn't know who he was indulging more, her - or himself. She was too smart, too capable, too quick on her feet for this to have been an accident. Right?

It didn't matter. She wanted something he knew he couldn't afford to give her; even if he wanted to.

The smear of engine oil was slick under his thumb. His heart thumped beneath his plastron as his finger brushed across her cheek, lubricated by grease and sweat. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating - hard and fast. Like he was running for his life. Raphael knew his touch had lingered longer than it should have, but he didn't care. His hand was almost cupping her cheek.

He could have brought her face to his and kissed her. It would have been so easy.

It felt good to touch her. Damn. It felt good to be this close. Too good. He took a deep breath. The turtle forced himself to let go. "I, uh," he cleared his throat. "I think I just made it worse."

That was all it took. It made her laugh. She laughed, and she smiled, and she slid out of his lap, righting herself with a cat like grace. Still chuckling softly to herself, she tossed her ponytail back over her shoulder. "Thanks a lot."

"Don't mention it," he grumbled. Though he really hoped she wouldn't.

The tank cockpit was small, and cramped, and he could still smell her, even though she had retreated to the gunner's station. She was running her fingers through her hair, tugging at her ponytail, filling the too small space with her scent, and it was about to overpower him. All of a sudden, he wanted her. He wanted her more than he had words for. But all he could think was to tell her to fuck off. To go. To get away from him. Because it was better that way.

Raphael realized she was staring at him. Shit. He wondered if it was because of the way he smelled. It couldn't be good, after hours scrounging around in tank cockpits with no AC. Whatever. He already knew he stank; he just hoped she didn't. She was still staring at him. Shit. She could totally smell how rank he was. He knew it.

Someone called her name from above the hatch. Angel turned towards the light, and his eyes traced the outline of her collarbones; the way her throat sloped as she craned her neck up towards topside. And in that moment, he wished he had kissed her.

But he told himself it was better this way. And he wanted to mean it. He wanted to mean it so fucking badly.

Angel turned back to him for a split second, her ponytail whipping around her neck, falling over her chest. Her eyes met his, and her lips parted, like she was going to say something. But she didn't. All Raphael could do was hang on the air, waiting for words that wouldn't come. Angel stood, slowly, and swung around onto the ladder. Her boot hadn't even hitched on the second rung when she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"It's nice havin' you around again, Raph."

Her words struck him like a stray bullet, utterly unexpected, but agonizing all the same. Raphael didn't know what to say. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't give himself away. Nothing he could say that wouldn't put them both in danger. Neither of them could afford to lose anyone else. Not after Casey. Or her grandma. Or Don. Or everyone else that was gone, now. So instead, he nodded. It seemed like the stoic thing to do.

And that was it. She was gone.

When he couldn't hear her on the roof, Raphael leaned back. She was staring at him before she left. He put his arms behind his head, and let his head loll back. As he stared at the ceiling, he wondered if she liked what she saw. He kicked his feet up over the console and let himself feel a little smug. All right. A lot smug. Even though he was a mutant turtle freak, he still had game. But he wondered. He wondered if she was just looking at him the way she looked at a tank, or a car, or a bike; trying to figure it out.

He just hoped she didn't want to fix him, too.


	3. Chapter 3

They were eating protein bars on top of a tank when the announcement came.

Angel sat with her legs dangling over the edge of their perch, gently kicking her boot heels against the side of the tank as she stared up at him. Raphael sat cross-legged beside her, chewing his protein bar, staring blankly at the other end of the hangar. If he squinted, it almost looked like the horizon of a gray morning; cloudy and bleak. But down below just ate up any light that dared trespass in the dark.

It had been a few weeks since the throttle incident. Raphael was more careful, now. He came to the hangar alone in the morning. He made it a point not to touch her. Or let his eyes linger on her longer than they should. But he still saw the furtive, curious over-the-shoulder glances from the other crew members when she smiled at him. Whatever. She smiled at everyone. No big deal.

Lunch was his greatest indulgence. The food was abysmal, but the company made up for it. They didn't talk much, but it was nice, just to be around her. Angel brought the recycled water. Raphael brought the staple meal replacement bars. They had a good time. Today their break room was the top of an M1-Abrams. So they sat on top of a tank, not talking. That's how he knew they were getting too close; it only got awkward when they started to speak.

"I miss pizza," he grumbled, deciding that thinking about mouthfuls of oozing hot cheese when there was nothing to eat but protein bars was worse than any physical torture he had ever endured. "And beer."

"I've got beer," Angel said, brushing the minefield of crumbs from her pants. He watched as scores of tiny flecks of protein bar cascaded off the side of the tank. "Wanna come over later?"

"How'dja get it?" he deflected. He should have just said no. But that wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to say yes, and walk to work with her the next morning. But that was a bad idea. Saying yes - giving the rest of the crew a real reason to stare - giving her a reason to hope it could be anything more than what it was - all bad.

"Traded for it," Angel shrugged nonchalantly. "I fixed the motor on Dia's vibrator for her."

Raphael laughed, low and gravelly. At least the end of the world still had beer and vibrators. Maybe there was still some hope for humanity after all.

"I'll think about it," he said, brushing the remnants of lunch from his fingers.

"So, that's like a yes in Raph, right?"

Telling Angel no was like telling lightning to go fuck itself - it just came again, harder, faster, relentless. She shot him an electric grin. The turtle stifled a sigh. Why did she have to be so damn stubborn?

Raphael could feel her eyes on him, waiting for an answer. His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, whatever, if it'll get you off my shell," he surrendered, but he would not look at her. If he had, he would have seen that she was still smiling.

One beer wouldn't hurt. Right? He wondered if this was the same beer that had exploded in that closet and flooded the hall in the east wing last week. The last time he drank a beer, he was with Casey. His mouth flattened into a harsh line across his face thinking about it. They had returned to a battleground while it was still smoldering; hid in the skeleton of a building on the outskirts of town, and just watched it burn. It was so fucking stupid. April would have killed them if she had ever found out. Raphael frowned.

But one beer with Angel wouldn't hurt. Just one. As he turned to tell her - one beer, that's _it_ \- the PA system crackled to life. It crackled, ringing with feedback so sharp it made Raphael wince. An unnatural silence settled over the hangar as the crew stopped what they were doing all at once. Like someone had pressed pause, they all stood still, waiting. Even the engines were quiet. Angel made a fist around her protein bar wrapper. The sound it made as it crinkled between her fingers was deafening in the abrupt silence.

"Raphael," a familiar voice crackled over the system.

She was saying his name, and it nearly made his heart stop.

"Please report to the Rebel Leader's office."

The turtle took a shuddering breath, and the hangar came back to life before his eyes. The crew resumed their duties, rifling through toolboxes, crawling over tanks, bending over and cinching up their bootlaces. Everyone got to go back to real life but him. His stomach lurched; he could feel it, twisting up inside of him. Why here? Why now? Of course she couldn't just send a page for him, or leave him a note under his door, or god forbid - bump into him in the hall like a fucking normal person. The turtle's fingers instinctively curled into fists. Of course not.

But then again, neither of them had ever been normal.

Raphael glanced over his shoulder at Angel. She was still squeezing her protein bar wrapper. He tried to ignore how white her knuckles were becoming. She just kept smiling at him. But her smile was different, now; her smile was sad. "Tell her I say 'hi'."

"Sure, Ange," Raphael replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He looked over the edge of the tank, casting his gaze to the ground. He might as well have been looking off the edge of the earth. Suddenly everything felt very far away, and he could feel every bite of hastily chewed protein bar in his gut rolling on a wave of stomach acid. "No problem."

He didn't know what else to say. So he left. Leapt off the tank, shoved his hands into the pockets of his bomber and kept on walking. The turtle could feel his hands getting clammy with every step he took across the concrete floor. As the hangar door slid open in front of him he told himself not to look back; it would be too obvious. The door slid closed behind him, and the unmistakable scream of metal on metal followed him out into the hall. Its echo chased him down the corridor at his heels, ghastly and lonely.

It had been over a month since he had seen her, but it felt more like a lifetime. The last time he saw her, she had turned her back to him and shrugged on her jacket. He had watched the shadows strike across her back, outlining all her harsh lines; all the scars and bones. They both knew it was a mistake, but they were too far gone with grief to care. Or think. At least that's what he told himself in the days to come while he lay awake at night, thinking about the way she tasted. Terrified she would never speak to him again.

The door to her office was closed when he arrived. Raphael stood there, numb, staring blankly. He wiped the sweat from his hands on his jacket, and fidgeted with the tails of his bandana and shifted his weight, feeling the cold concrete suck all the warmth out of his bare feet.

Her door was closed. Raphael stood before it in silence. The logical thing to do would be to knock, but instead he just stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists in the pockets of his jacket. The motion became rhythmic, as natural and constant as his pulse. In the stillness of the long, dark hallway, he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He was nervous as hell, but if anyone had said so, he would've decked 'em. He almost wished he could deck himself; snap himself out of it. It was just April, after all.

Every second he stood in front of that door the knots in his stomach only got tighter. The knots just kept contracting, and expanding, flip flopping. Fuck. Raphael's brow furrowed beneath his mask. This was ridiculous. He and April had been friends for over a decade.

It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about coming to see her. The thought had crossed his mind every day since that night. He could've just shown up at her door and told her to cut the bullshit – that they needed each other. That he could take care of her, the way Casey had taken care of her. Even though he knew damn well she could take care of herself. He knew. But he wanted her to let him try. He couldn't even begin to count the times he had thought about kicking down this damn door, uninvited, unannounced, no fucks given. As guilty as it made him feel, he thought about it – thought about tipping her neck back and running his fingers through her hair. And he wanted her to kiss him like she meant it, not like she was just some empty thing with her face; her lips; her mouth. Like she meant it. Like they weren't a mistake.

Raphael knew that wasn't gonna happen.

But it still would have been nice to have a cup of coffee, and pretend like they weren't completely fucked, even if it was only for five minutes. The turtle inhaled deeply through his nostrils; felt his chest rise and fall beneath his plastron as he exhaled. Might as well get this over with. He rose a fist to knock, but the door fell back, sliding back silently in the dark.

"Hey," said a faint spectral voice from beyond the wall. The ghost of April O'Neil.

"Hey," he replied, trying to sound somewhat less hostile than usual.

Raphael pushed on the door and slipped inside. As it slid closed behind him, he blinked back the dark. When his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light he saw her, and he watched her as she drifted to her desk. It was illuminated by a halo of light, cold and harsh, but staving off the darkness all the same. Everything else was cloaked in shadows. Something shifted in the dim light, and Raphael realized it was her. So quiet and hushed, she was almost like a memory. Like he had watched her, here, a thousand times before; like there was nothing he could do, or say, that would change what she was about to do. But still. Something was different.

"Woah."

All of her hair was gone. Well, not all of it. Just. Most of it. She had cut it all off. Her fire engine red hair was gone; all that remained was a faded natural red, streaked with gray. There was nothing left to hide her face. That beautiful face, the face that he saw when he closed his eyes, when he laid alone in the dark; that face was gone. The face that stared back at him was lined with grief and years past. She had never looked so old. Or sad. She was only thirty-eight. That wasn't even half a lifetime before everything fell apart. But she looked like she had lost enough for a hundred lifetimes. It wasn't right. Or fair. But that's the way it was at the end of the world.

"Big change," Raphael commented as he pulled a chair up to her desk.

A faint smile danced across her lips, fleeting and quick. She knew the steps all too well. Put on a face. Put on a show. Make them believe. "It always is," she replied.

Casey had always loved her hair. He was always goin' on about how it smelled. Raphael knew first hand how good it smelled; how good it felt between his fingers; how good it looked, clinging to her cheeks as the heat rose in her face.

"How've you been?" Raphael ventured. His eyes scanned her face, searching for the April he used to know. She was in there somewhere, under the dark circles and all the grief. He stifled the urge to reach across her desk and take her hand in his.

"Busy. Very busy," April began, scouring through a pile of tablets atop her desk. "I'm sorry I- " she almost apologized for disappearing, but she moved on just as quickly. Raphael frowned. It wasn't like it meant anything, anyway. "I've just been so busy, with the new M-Ones and this new intel that just came in…" she went on. She kept talking about everything but herself.

Her hand swept over her desk in a flurry as she rummaged through the pile of tablets. Raphael looked away. It hurt to see her like this, all amped up and empty. Avoiding him. His eyes stopped at a chess set on the other side of her desk, and his heart hitched in his chest. It was Donatello's chess set. All of a sudden all the loss and the grief and the loneliness hit him like a train about to hurdle off its tracks. But she just kept on talking.

"April."

That stopped her. Sorrowful emerald eyes looked up at him from across her desk. Fuck. She looked so wounded. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, try to hold her together with nothing but his bare hands. More than anything, he wanted to make it better. But that hadn't worked out so well the last time.

"Are you okay?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Her lip began to tremble. It required all of his self-restraint to keep himself from wrapping his arms around her, to keep himself from taking her face in his hands and breathing life back into her gaunt, hollow body. Raphael had never been known for his self-restraint, but he forced himself to sit across the desk, a silent supplicant. And as April's eyes fell upon his face, it seemed that she knew he too was a pilgrim, walking the same lonely road she was, endless and damned. And in that moment, when her eyes found his face in the dark, he thought she might cry.

Why wouldn't she just let herself fucking cry?

"I'll be fine," she nodded, smiling feebly, dodging the question as easily as she might duck a sloppy right hook.

Raphael's mouth spread into a harsh, taught line across his muzzle. It wasn't a lie. Not technically. But it was still bullshit. She gave him a half-hearted wink in an effort to placate him. He knew she wasn't doing it because she meant it. She was doing it because she wanted him out of her hair, off her back, to change the fuckin' subject.

All he wanted was a little honesty. Was that too much to ask? He wasn't some starry eyed new recruit who needed to be inspired or some shit. He was her friend. And he knew the rebellion wasn't all guts and glory; it was missing limbs and dead best friends and ugly scars across your heart that would never really heal. He knew.

Now that Don and Casey were gone, he probably knew her better than anybody. So couldn't she just be honest with him?

But who was he to give anyone shit about being honest. He had been in love with his best friend's girl for going on a decade, and no one fucking knew. It was easy enough to see that Don had had a total hard-on for her. He gave himself away with every moony sideways glance across the lab while they worked; every pathetic, dreamy sigh he thought no one heard after he got off the phone with her. He and Casey laughed about it over beer, their legs dangling off the edges of rooftops late at night. But they never talked about how tender Raphael was with her; how he let his guard down when she was around; how whenever she called, he came. Casey just shrugged it off - his best friend was looking out for his girl. Raphael never felt the need to explain himself any further.

"How have you been?" she asked.

He shoved his fists into the pockets of his bomber jacket. "Keepin' busy,"

"I see you've been spending a lot of time with those new M-Ones lately."

Raphael blinked. Oh. Right. Angel. The tanks. Wait – how did April know about any of that? Had she been watching him? Tracking him? Christ – she could have just asked. If she had bothered to talk to him any time in the last two months, he would have been happy to tell her. He would have told her everything.

She must have seen his asshole starting to clench, because she gestured to the heaps of tablets covering the surface of her desk. Raphael almost sighed in relief. She must have read about him working with Angel on a report. Angel fucki'n hated writing those reports. She spoke english just fine, but writing was something she really struggled with. It took her forever, she got pissed off; made her feel stupid. He knew the feeling, and English wasn't even his second language.

"Oh. Yeah," the turtle shifted his weight in the chair. "Angel says hi."

He let his words hang in the air for a moment, waiting for April to react, but her face only remained placid. What was hidden beneath the surface? Casey and Angel had always been close. For a while Angel almost seemed like the kid April and Casey never had. But then Angel grew up. And Casey died. They were all broken, now. There might have been some comfort in that, if there was any comfort to be had at the end of the world. At the end, even the comfort had to be approached with caution. Otherwise it would just hurt you, like everything else.

April nodded, her pale skin and solemn face statuesque in the low light. So poised and sorrowful. The color was gone from her face, her brilliant red lips were pallid now. The lipstick he had washed from his clavicles was gone. Raphael inhaled, exhaled, tried to focus. That was a mistake. That night was a mistake. He never should have kissed her, under that dying emergency light. Hoping that she would ever want him, ever _really_ want him - that was more than a mistake. That was stupid. But Raphael knew he had never been the smart one.

And then he blinked. April was smiling at him. Her lip was curling up at the corner, and her brow was arching, just so. And in that moment, she looked like herself again. "So you ready to get back to work, Raphael?"

The turtle crossed his arms over his plastron, trying not to look too excited. Trying to keep his cool. His brow ridge creased. "What'dya have in mind?"

She pulled a tablet from the pile, tossed it into his lap. It hit him square in the gut, and he doubled over a little. He swore as he groped for the damn thing, trying to catch it before it fell off his lap and onto the floor. So much for ninja reflexes. She had expected him to catch it, but he had been too damn distracted by the shape of her lips, hanging on all the words they had left unsaid. Grumbling, he swiped his finger over the screen and began to read. There were pages and pages of intel, and he had never been all that advanced of a reader. When he was done, he looked up, and his eyes met hers.

"This is suicide."

"No, Raphael," April was suddenly serious. Her lips pressed together in determination. "Not if you do it."

"Come on," Raphael set the tablet on her desk, smiling in spite of himself. "Don't go gettin' soft on me now."

He ran his hand over his face. If he and Casey couldn't do it together, what made her think he could do it alone? How could she still believe? He frowned. Of course she still believed. She had always believed in him and his brothers, even when they could not believe in themselves. But how could she still believe in him?

"We could really stop them this time," she said the words like a prayer. Like she had said them a thousand times before. And she had. She had said them before she sent Casey into the fire.

"April…" he began, his gut wrenching to think about that night, and how she had kissed Casey goodbye like she always did. Like it was any other night. Like the end of the world wasn't gonna catch up with them. Like they were invincible.

"Just think about it." She took the tablet in her hands. "R and D won't be finished for another week or two anyway."

He wanted to scream at her. To tell her it was pointless. That it was all bullshit. That the only thing that meant anything was the night they had fucked when Casey's corpse was barely even cold. That when he died, he wanted to die with her, not alone. But her face; her sad, beautiful, hopeful face shut him up. He had never been good at saying no to April O'Neil.

"I'll do it."

The veneer of her composure was cracked by a smile. He tried to smile back, but all he could manage was a grimace. He stood to leave. Hell, what else was there to say if neither of them could even be honest? Instead they choked out platitudes and pleasantries, all equally empty. He had dug his own grave, and he was ready to lie in it. Alone.

Raphael turned his back to her. "Just lemme know when we ship out."

As he took a step forward, he felt something on his shell. Her hand was on his carapace. Her touch was so gentle it almost passed over Raphael without him even noticing. April's fingers sent a surge through him, agonizing and electrifying all at once. She drifted around him, and when her eyes met his, Raphael's breath caught in his throat. And then she embraced him; she flung her arms around his neck, and rested her face on his shoulder, and he could feel the heat of her skin on his. And he wanted her more than anything, and it made him feel like shit. With Angel there was a burning, primal desire that swelled up in him when he least expected it. But with April, he just ached. Like a deep burn, it stung even after the fire went out.

"Thank you," she squeezed him in her arms.

"Any time," he said, trying to sound sincere instead of like a miserable choked up sack of shit. Though if he were being honest, he would have told her. He would have kissed her and told her he would have done anything for her. Instead he just said something that didn't mean anything. Another bullshit transaction in the business of emotion.

Her words echoed at the back of his mind as he shut the door behind himself. _We could really stop them this time._ He wanted to believe, like she believed. Maybe that's why he said yes. Or maybe he just had nothin' left to lose. The turtle buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he walked down the halls in the dark, the sound of his barefeet slapping on the cold concrete his only company.

Angel's bunk was on the way to his. Same wing, different floor. He didn't remember the number, but her door had a sacred heart carved into it, the paint scraped off over the metal. It was impossible to miss. Raphael paused. It was late enough for her to be back, wasn't it? He counted off time on his shortage of fingers. The passage of time was strange with no sun or stars. All there was below was the dark and failing emergency lights. Stale air that tasted like other people.

He thought about knocking. He thought about knocking, and sitting down on her bed next to her, and taking her up on one of those awful home brews, and telling her. Maybe if she knew he was as good as dead it would convince her to leave him the fuck alone. That it was better this way. His knuckles were poised over the crudely rendered symbol. Maybe then she would stop looking at him like he had something more to offer her than misery.

Raphael's hand fell to his side.

But he already knew what she would say.

So he kept on walking.


	4. Chapter 4

Raphael laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, smoking Casey's cigarettes. He hadn't left his bunk in days, and this pack was getting low.

Smoke wafted around Raphael's face, drifting away with his thoughts. Casey wasn't a regular smoker. Or a social smoker. He usually only smoked after a beat down. Cigarettes were his victory lap. They were Raphael's consolation prize. After Casey died, April gave Raphael the box of smokes. Well, the box of smokes appeared in front of his door. That was it. Now that box was under Raphael's unmade bed, just sitting there, collecting dust. The last vestiges of Casey's life were getting old and stale and yellowed; like everything else below.

He exhaled smoke sharply through his nostrils and savored the lingering burn of a cigarette that was almost about to die. Almost. Raphael groped for the pack, discarded somewhere in the mess of his comforter and sheets and old, flat pillows. The sheets bunched in his fist before the pack of cigarettes crumpled in his hand. The plastic and paper collapsed between his three fingers; almost out.

It had been days since he'd seen April, and just as many since he'd been to the shop. Whatever. It wasn't like they actually needed him. Angel was just doing him a favor, having him there. Keeping him busy. Poor Raphael with nothing better to do than sit around all day by himself bein' pissed off. What else was new. Her pity and his self-loathing made quite a fuckin pair.

 _Beats sittin' round feelin' sorry for yourself all day_ , her voice echoed in the back of his mind. He took a drag and closed his eyes. And there she was, smiling back at him. He opened his eyes abruptly, his brow furrowing behind his mask. He would rather be alone.

It was better this way.

Raphael took another drag, let his lungs fill with the harsh, chemical heat. He exhaled and plumes of smoke curled overhead, hanging above him, weaving a momentary curtain between him and reality. There was something meditative about it. Real soothing. He wondered if this is how Leo felt, meditating with their father in the dojo. Somehow perfectly centered and detached from everything all at once.

What would his father think if he saw him, now? Would he be furious – or just disappointed? Raphael's eyes were beginning to lose focus as he stared at the ceiling through the haze of smoke. It was filling his quarters. Fuck. It wasn't like they hadn't tried. They had tried _so hard_. They had sacrificed everything. Their friends. Their lives. Themselves. Raphael ashed his cigarette over the side of the bed.

It would all be over soon enough.

Maybe this time it would even work.

He thought about his brother's chess set, just sitting on her desk. The set was still complete; it even had the king with the chip on the side. One of the few times he had played with Donatello, he broke it. Donatello bested him within a matter of moves, the number of which Raphael was sure either of them could count on their deformed fingers. Surprise. Raphael did what he did best. He got mad. He got furious. He threw the damn king against the wall and stormed out. Didn't look back. The next time he visited Don's lab, the king was there. His brother had glued it back together, but there was still a chip in the side. An ugly, glaring reminder that Raphael just broke everything he touched.

The pieces weren't set like they were for a match on April's desk. They looked like they were in motion; like she was playing against herself. Or maybe she was playing Donatello. Or Donatello's ghost. She knew him well enough to anticipate his moves. To think like he did. She was just as capable; just as cunning. Since his disappearance she had exceeded him in her strategy. So maybe it would work – this time.

Donatello had been a master strategist, but he always got caught up in the minutia. That's why they needed Leo. Leo got the big picture. Most of the time. Raphael scowled reflexively. Fuck Leo for leaving. And fuck Michelangelo for staying, even though all he could do was feel sorry for himself. Fuck Casey for dying and taking April with him – even though she had to keep on living. And fuck Angel for being nice to him, even though they both knew he was only gonna end up hurtin' her.

Why had she even bothered? She knew what she was getting into, didn't she? Casey must have told her. He would have been a shitty friend, if he hadn't. The corners of Raphael's mouth curled up into the beginning of a smirk. He was one to talk about being a shitty friend. The only person he'd ever been good at being friends with was Casey. Angel was a lot like him. But she was smart. Not smart like Don was smart, or April was smart. There was an edge to Angel's intelligence. No nonsense. The sort of smarts you learned by fucking up and paying for it. Raphael sighed. He just wished she had been smart enough to stay away from him.

Something hot flared against his calloused fingers. The cigarette. The cigarette was burning him.

"Shit!" he spat, tossing it onto the floor.

Swinging into sitting position, he began furiously stomping the damn thing out. As the last lingering embers went out beneath his heel, Raphael sighed. He needed to get out of his bunk. Have a cup of coffee. Eat something that wasn't a staple meal replacement protein bar. Do something - _anything_ – other than lie on his unmade bed and await for April to issue his death sentence.

Fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket, Raphael stepped out into the hall. Something clinked at his feet. He glanced down at the source of the sound; a six pack of mismatched bottles. Homebrew. The turtle squinted. There was a note attached to one of the beers. As he bent one of his knees popped and he felt insufferably old.

 _For you, asshole_.

Raphael sighed. Guess Angel noticed when he didn't show up for beers that night. Or for work the next morning. Or the next. Or however many days it had been since he left his bunk. Resigned, Raphael ran his hand over his face; calloused fingers dragged over his eyelids, tugging at the edges of his bandana. She was right. He was an asshole.

Whatever. It's not like it was some sort of surprise. Angel knew him. She knew who he was. She should have known that no matter how nice she was, or how happy being around her made him, that he was just gonna fuck up eventually.

Hoisting the six pack up by the handle, Raphael trudged down the hall. He didn't ask for this. He hadn't asked for any of this; not the beer, not her attention, or affection. Or her fuckin' expectations. Not any of it. His fingers tightened around the handle. He was taking this shit back. If he was gonna die, he didn't want to go owing anyone anything. Especially not Angel. Especially not when she'd been so damn nice. She should have known better.

 _He_ should have known better. He should have said no. He should have stayed in his bunk, smoking Casey's cigarettes, waiting for April to call. But no. _He_ had to go have coffee, and sit at that empty cafeteria table like a schmuck, waiting for her. Wanting to see her. Thinking about it just made him even more furious. Though he didn't know who he was angrier with: her, or himself.

He wanted to hate her. To resent her. To feel nothing but pissed off when he thought about her. But he didn't. All he felt was furious with himself for being stupid; for not being strong enough to refuse.

A light in the wall buzzed, cutting the silence with the doleful sound of its impending failure. It was so dark on base. Darker than it had ever been in the lair. When they were young, Raphael had dreamed of the sun. Before they were allowed to go alone, when they were too small, and soft, and vulnerable to go above, Raphael used to sit under the sewer grates for hours, trying to catch the sun. On a good day it streamed through the rusted metal bars, past the garbage and the grime and everything that grew in the cracks in the concrete, and it was the only thing that made him feel good. Like he wasn't garbage. He remembered the way it felt on his skin, the way it made him feel warm, and safe, even when things he could not see crawled across his feet, or hands, or shook something loose from up above. But the worst thing was - she made him feel like that, the way he felt, under the sun.

And April. April just looked at him like he wasn't even there. Just an empty thing, a cut out of her dead second-in-command's right hand. Even though she let him kiss her that night, in the dying light, in the lonely dark. Even though he tasted the salt on her skin, she did not cry. She just went through the motions. Like she was going through the motions now.

But he was still waiting for her call. Even after the way she had looked at him, eyes glinting with some miserably manic flicker of hope that he could fix something he didn't even break - he still ached for her. He wanted her. He wanted to help her. He wanted her to love him, the way he had always loved her; even though he knew she never would. Even though it was stupid. This is why Raphael didn't do feelings. They didn't make any goddamn sense.

It was so much easier to be angry. His knuckles hit her door hard over the sacred heart she had scratched across it. When she did not answer, he brought his fist down again, harder and faster. This was it. Good bye. Sayonara. See you in hell. He could have just left the damn beer there at her door and let her figure it out, but then – then she might come back. This way there would be no what-ifs, no maybes. Just fuck yous.

He knocked again.

"Fuck off!" came a muffled shout from behind the door.

Raphael rolled his eyes and knocked again.

The door slid open, and a pair of fierce brown eyes glinted back at Raphael from the darkness. A pierced brow furrowed at him before she disappeared into the recesses of her quarters. The turtle exhaled sharply through his nostrils, but he followed her. Pushing the door open with his shoulder he stepped inside.

Angel was wearing some semblance of workout gear; a tank top that was stretched tight across her chest and a pair of shorts that were hardly enough to cover her all the way. Long purple hair hung around her shoulders, clinging to her throat. She smelled clean. Raphael took a deep breath, breathing her in by accident. It wasn't unpleasant. It just - it almost wasn't like her. Raphael was used to her smelling like sweat and engine oil, with a deep, unmistakable undercurrent of something else. Something warm, and natural and strong. Now she just smelled like standard issue bar soap; the kind that cracked and made your skin dry and tight.

"What d'ya want Raph?"

She turned on her heel to storm away from him. He watched her in the dark; eyes fixed on her long, lean legs, and where they ended at the edge of her shorts. Fuck. Those things barely covered her ass.

"Christ, Angel – where d'you get off answerin' the door like that?" Raphael grumbled, forcing himself to look at his feet.

"I knew it was you," she crossed her arms over her chest. "So what do you want?"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" he grumbled, still looking at his feet.

"What do you want?" she repeated, unfazed. Raphael looked up to meet her gaze; there was something hard and sharp about her eyes. Even though her hair was wet, she seemed to bristle, flaring up like dark, electric clouds rolling in on the horizon.

She was pissed. Good. That would make this easier. Raphael felt a pang of regret tugging at his gut. She had been so nice to him. She was the only one who asked how he was after Casey died. Not Leo. Not Michelangelo. Not April. Just Angel. But she wanted him here – that's why she left the beer, wasn't it? He was here, now, and he was going to end it. The flirting, the anticipation, the bullshit back and forth - all of it.

"Here," Raphael thrust the beer at her. "Take it."

"I don't _want_ it," she waved a hand dismissively before running it through her wet hair.

Raphael swallowed, trying to make the lump in his throat go away so he could breathe again. "Neither do I," he managed to grunt.

"Well too fuckin' bad!" Angel snapped.

"I said I don't want it," Raphael repeated, his eyes set firm behind his mask; his mouth a harsh, unforgiving line across his muzzle.

"Well that fuckin' sucks, Raph," she replied, almost dolefully. "'Cuz I got it for you."

Angel sat down at the edge of the bed and started piling her hair on top of her head, trying to cram it all into a ponytail. Watching her, all graceless and unguarded, Raphael almost sighed. And then, all of a sudden, all of his anger was gone. Like spit on a hot sidewalk– all you had to do was blink, and no one would even know it was ever there at all. He thought about apologizing. Raphael had never been all that good at apologizing, but people still seemed to appreciate it. Sometimes.

Instead he just said nothing. Instead, he just sighed, and carefully put the beer on the floor. Hands in his jacket pockets, he turned to go.

Raphael glanced over his shoulder at her, still sitting at the edge of the bed. If she only knew where he was actually going. That he was going to finish what Casey started. If Donatello were there he might've rambled off some string of numbers - ridiculous numbers – _impossible_ numbers – to one.

But Donatello wasn't there. Not Donatello, or Leonardo, or Michelangelo. Raphael had always felt alone, before. But now that they were all gone – really gone – it hurt more than he ever imagined it could. And then she looked at him, or smiled at him, or gave him shit about something, and it hurt a little less. And he knew if he smiled at her, and said he was sorry, and stayed – she was just gonna hurt. Like he was hurting.

So he turned back around, and kept his eyes on the door. Something groaned behind the walls. An old pipe, bemoaning age and time. Everything below was falling apart. But what else was new. One failed generator, and the dark would eat them all up. They were all walking a fine line between light and shadow down below. At the end of the world, they were all living on borrowed time.

And as far as Raphael could tell, his time was almost up.

His fingers closed around the doorknob. As his hand twisted, a bitter laugh filled the room. Angel was laughing.

"I don't even like beer!" she crowed.

He turned to see her, head lolling back as she laughed at the dark, at the ceiling, at nothing, and the anger flared up inside him again, hot and furious like a wildfire. The fury seared inside his gut. He had tried to smother it. To squelch it, to keep it in check. But now he was on fire, and it was going to burn everything.

Raphael spun on his heel to face her, his mouth all twisted up, ugly and angry. Before he could speak, Angel was quick to cut him off. So much for sayonara, see you in hell.

"You're pissed at _me?_ " Angel stood up slowly. "For bein' good to you?" she chuckled bitterly. "Nice, Raph. Real nice."

"I never asked you for anythin'!" the turtle bellowed at her, arms up, before they fell flat against his sides, fists clenched impotently. "I never asked -"

"So what, Raph?" She interjected. "So fucking what if you didn't ask? You were fine with me bein' nice until April called." Angel stood before him, eyes burning, fists clenched; fury incarnate. Wet hair fell around her face, clinging to the warm brown skin of her cheeks and neck, straining to escape her messy ponytail.

She was calling him on his shit. He knew he deserved it, but it was only making him more pissed. "It ain't like that," Raphael chuffed, shoving his fists into his jacket pockets.

"So what is it like, Raphael?" Her eyes narrowed as she did that thing with his name – accentuating every syllable in her irritation. "Why don't you tell me? Since everything has to be on _your_ terms." Her mouth was a sharp line across her face; lips as hard as the edge of a knife. "Come on. Enlighten me."

"Don't get all pissed off at me just 'cause you're all lonely and sad," Raphael dug the knife in deep. "I'm not you're fuckin' boyfriend, Angel," he choked the words out. "So get over it already."

Angel shot him a fierce glare. "Who said anythin' about you bein' my boyfriend?"

"You didn't have to say anythin'!" The turtle snapped back. "All the "you wanna talk about it"s and offerin' me a job and invitin' me back to your place made it crystal clear." His eyes narrowed behind his mask.

"Christ, Raph - I was just trying to be your friend." Angel tore at her hair. "Can't you get that through your thick skull?"

"You are my friend!" Raphael yelled. Not like it was a good thing.

" _Dios mio,"_ Angel dragged a hand over her face.

She was beginning to shake with rage, but that wasn't what tipped Raphael off as to how truly livid she was. It was the Spanish. She only spoke Spanish when she was pissed. Real pissed. That one time he and Casey dragged her back to her grandma's when she snuck out past curfew and they found her smoking dope in the park, she screamed at them in Spanish the whole way home.

"Friends don't fuck off for years and not talk to one another for no reason, _gilipolas_!"

"I was doing you a fuckin favor." His mouth settled into a frown as he crossed his arms over his plastron. "It was for your own good, trust me."

He meant it. More than anything, he meant it.

It was supposed to be quick and clean. Fuck you, see you in hell. Now here he was, spilling his godforsaken guts. Amidst the anger and the hurt and the regret, he was suddenly unexpectedly defensive. Why was he telling her this? What did it matter? Casey was dead. And Raphael knew he was gonna be walking the same road, soon enough. He wanted her to be pissed at him. He wanted her to be _furious_. She was so fucking stubborn – it was the only way she was gonna get off his shell. The only way to keep her from getting even more hurt. But there was a part of him that wanted her to know why.

Death always left unanswered questions. Loose ends. The not knowing; that was almost the worst part. And he wanted her to know. But it was too hard. The words wouldn't come. He only became angrier; the fire inside him consuming everything. Like it always did.

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Raphael." A frightening calm settled over Angel's features. Her beautiful, full lips were set; a harsh plum line etched deep in her warm brown skin. Jaw clenched, shoulders back, she set her gaze on him, completely fierce and unwavering. "So I decide what's good."

"I brought your beer back, okay? I don't owe you anythin', Angel. And by the way," infuriated, he pointed a single finger at her. "I get t'leave whenever I damn well please."

"You owe me a fuckin' explanation!"

She was right. So what. So fucking what. This was it. His last chance for fuck yous. He opened his mouth to tell her off; to tell her to fuck herself for expecting something he never said he could give her, but something stopped him. The violent words at the edge of his tongue abated. She was right. He couldn't give her what she wanted, or what she deserved. But he could give her the truth.

"I'm goin' back. To where Casey died." He shoved his fists in his pockets. "So don't expect to be seein' me 'round the shop. Or anywhere else around here, okay?"

Her face dropped. His heart almost sank as he watched it plunge. Watching her face twist was like watching someone falling off a building; like everything was fucked and there was no stopping it now. Like all that was gonna be left in a few minutes was a smear of blood and broken bones - and broken hearts.

"So what – all this because you're afraid you're gonna die?" she cried.

Angel took a step towards him. The anger was fading from her face; empathy was creeping in around the edges, softening the fury. There was something else there, too. Pity. The turtle's gut wrenched. He didn't want her to think - fuck. He took a step back towards the door.

"Ain't afraid," he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him.

"Then what's your fuckin' problem?" she was up in his face now; so close he could smell that standard issue soap; so close he could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. She was too close. Raphael felt the heat rise in his face, felt the blood boiling in his veins. He clenched his fists.

"You wanna know what my fuckin' problem is?" Raphael snapped at her.

She looked up at him defiantly.

"Christ Angel! Ain't it obvious?" he glared back at her. "It's you!" the turtle screamed.

He wanted to give her the truth, so there it was, laid out, ripped open - naked and ugly and real. She was his fucking problem. She was the one who came to the garage. She was the one who asked him if he wanted to talk about it. She was the one who offered him safe haven, when she should have known to get as far away from him and the storm that chased his heels as she could go. Raphael's plastron heaved as he inhaled. He opened his mouth to scream at her again, but her hand connected with his face before he could even blink.

Angel might as well have punched him with how hard the palm of her hand slammed into his muzzle. There was something warm in his mouth. The metallic taste of blood bloomed across his tongue. As he tenderly massaged his jaw, he almost laughed. He should have known Angel would have kissed with a fist. He grinned at her with bloody teeth.

Her eyes were wide, shocked by what she had done. She was trying to smother it, keep it secret, make it seem intentional. She didn't want him to know she lost it, like he lost it. And in that moment, as his eyes met hers, he knew. He knew she was angry, too. Not just angry at him. He may not have been the smart one, but even he could've figured that out. Angel was angry, the way he was angry. Because there were no happy endings, and he didn't know how else to be. Not anymore.

Abandoning every intention he had carried when he walked through Angel's door, Raphael yanked her towards him by the shoulders and his mouth mashed against hers. He had never been an elegant kisser, but what he lacked in technique he made up for with impetuous passion. As his blood-smeared muzzle collided with her lips, something surged through him like lightning, white hot and electric.

But when her lips softened against his, he pulled away.

"This what you want?" he wiped the blood from his mouth on the back of his hand.

She blinked back at him. Her lips were red with his blood; wet from his mouth. The air between them felt unnaturally still and quiet, the painful quiet before the storm that seemed like it might stretch on forever. Raphael was almost afraid to breathe and break that silence, punctuated only with the slow, low humming of artificial light that might give out at any moment. But his heartbeat still thundered in his ears.

When she spoke, her voice was raw and shaking.

"Yes."

That was all he needed to hear.


	5. Chapter 5

Raphael pulled Angel back to him; his big, calloused hands sliding up over the warm, soft skin of her shoulders, up her throat, to her face. The turtle held her face in his hands, thumbs brushing over cheeks that were red and hot to the touch. Why the hell she wanted his enormous, freakish hands all over her, he would never know. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she wanted him. He asked, and she said yes. She wanted this, and so did he. He wasn't going to pretend he didn't. Not anymore.

Fuck.

It felt so good to touch her.

Raphael kissed her again,and her lips met his, eagerly smashing against his muzzle in a belligerent fervor; trying to figure out his damn mouth. He wondered if she had imagined this. The turtle assumed that in her fantasies he hadn't been such a wet, sloppy kisser. But Angel didn't seem to mind. Full but delicate lips parted against his, drawing him closer to her; pulling him in deeper.

Walls of stalwart denial built brick by brick over so many miserable years were crumbling between them now, washed away by a deluge of desire he had forced himself to stifle for so fucking long. He could still taste the blood in his mouth; the warm, metallic taste lingering over his tongue and hers. Why did he have to be such a fuckin idiot?

Why couldn't he just let himself love her?

Angel was up against him now; he could feel the heat of her skin on his as she slid her leg over his thigh. His tail was beginning to swell between his legs, he could feel it: the warmth, the heat radiating between his thighs. Christ. He hoped she wouldn't freak about his dick. He had only ever really told Casey about it; how it came out of his tail. How it scared the shit out of him the first time it happened. That time with April – they were in the dark. She wouldn't look at him. She didn't want to look at him. But here, now, with Angel - it was different. She wanted this. She wanted _him_. Even though she had no fucking clue how much of a freak he really was.

So he just kept kissing her. It felt so good to kiss her; her warm, soft lips on his, their mouths moving in sync. They had found their rhythm, and he didn't want it to stop. His hands drifted into her hair. As he ran his fingers through her long, beautiful mane he had to stifle an impulse to pull it. Just thinking about it made his cock ache. Made his cock strain against the opening of his cloaca. And all of a sudden her hands weren't on him; they were in her hair, yanking it out of the ponytail she had it piled up in. The hairband snapped against her fingers, and a cascade of wet hair spilled over her shoulders and around her face.

He opened his eyes and there she was. Her hair was everywhere, and she was looking at him with those fierce, deep brown eyes, her lips parted and wet. The turtle slowly ran his fingers through her hair. Gently. When his thumb caught on a damp tangle, he thought about telling her she was beautiful. And she was. She was so fucking beautiful. But he didn't. He couldn't. The words wouldn't come. But he hoped she knew. He hoped she could see it in his eyes - how beautiful he thought she was.

Angel looked up at him with her fierce eyes, and she smiled. Her full, plum lips tugged up into a stunning self-assured smile. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, even though he was sure he would feel like an asshole for saying it. Like some sappy schmuck. But he owed her that much. One more truth. One kind thing.

Before he could even open his mouth to speak, her lips were on his again, but this time – this time she was going slow. He could feel her hands on him, grazing the scutes of his plastron, trying not to linger over the rough plates that covered his chest. He wondered if it was weird for her. Hoped she couldn't feel his heart slamming up against his chest beneath her fingers. Raphael tried to take a deep breath. Her hands were on his shoulders; his neck; his face.

Angel's hands trailed over his throat, tracing the taut line of muscle over his clavicles, over his shoulders. She kissed him and touched him like she wanted this, like she wanted him. It made Raphael feel like he was on fire. Not the engulfing fire of rage, uncontrollable and relentless, burning hot in his gut threatening to consume him entirely. No, this was warm as it washed over him, making his entire body molten and soft and pliant in her hands. Angel yanked his jacket over his shoulders, but the neck caught on the edge of his carapace. As his jacket hitched on his shell, his breath hitched in his chest. Angel was still trying to pull it from his body, trying to tear it away – trying to leave him exposed. Shit.

He needed a diversion.

Raphael grabbed Angel by the buttocks and pushed her up against the wall. He heard how she inhaled sharply, heard the little yelp of surprise she tried to stifle. He grinned wolfishly at her, and she cocked a pierced purple brow back at him before leaning back in to find his mouth once more. He pushed up against her, smashing her up on the wall, but she didn't seem to mind; she only kept kissing him, her lips drifting away only to collide with his again and again. She had forgotten his jacket completely.

And he was suddenly, acutely aware of how her hips were hugging his, how her legs were wrapped around his shell. God, it was hot. The tender flesh of her bare feet pressed against the hard edge of his carapace, and her pelvis rolled over his. He was holding her up against the wall by her ass, and by some miracle of physics and her exemplary core strength, she was staying there. His tail was so swollen now there was no way he could ignore it.

When Angel's pelvis ground over his again he could no longer contain himself. His cock had been aching, straining against his cloaca since they had begun, and now it was descending, emerging from the slit on his tail. She must have felt his hard, slick erection against her, between her legs, because all of a sudden she was struggling to rid herself of the shorts that barely covered her ass, that left nothing to the imagination, that had turned him on even though he was furious with her when he had walked through that door. Somehow she wiggled free, and they fell onto the floor; forgotten.

His cock pushed up against her and the sensation of them - together - hit him like lightning. The white hot surge pulsed through his entire being, making his skin turn to gooseflesh, every inch of it so sensitive that he was afraid she might touch him, that a single caress of a finger might make him finish before they even started. Christ. She was so wet. His cock slid up against her inner thigh, against the softest, tenderest part of her. And then her hand was on his shaft, sliding down the length of it to the base of his tail, and his eyes widened behind his mask. He choked out a shuddering breath, trying not to lose it in her hand right then and there, grateful for her guidance as everything below reeled relentlessly around him.

He was wet with his own arousal, and Angel's hand slid easily over him, stroking him firmly. And then, with the slightest jerk of her wrist, his head was at the edge of her, where her body opened to his, warm and wet. Raphael thrust his hips, and Angel gasped as he plunged into her. He could feel her, clenching around him, straining to accommodate the girth of his inhuman cock. From the corner of his eye, he saw her, gritting her teeth, her head leaning back. And then she closed her eyes and exhaled with a strange serenity, so he did not stop.

Each thrust became a little less awkward, a little more rhythmic. He squeezed her ass in his hands, pulling her onto him again and again. Raphael leaned into her, breathing heavy, his ragged breath hot on her neck. Angel titled her head back, damp hair falling across her breasts, chest heaving with each breath and every thrust. Sweat trickled from her throat down between her breasts, and Raphael kissed her neck hard, savoring the way she tasted. He felt her nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket, and his knees trembled below them.

Fuck.

The turtle wanted to scream. To tell her he was gonna cum. But that much must've been obvious. Instead he gritted his teeth and kept thrusting into her, trying to hold on until the last possible moment. He didn't want this to end; he wanted to stay like this, with her, forever. His grip tightened on her hips, his hands desperately kneading the soft warm flesh of her ass, pulling her as close to him as he could. And then she tilted her head back and his name escaped her lips, echoing softly in the suffocating silence of below. Raphael felt Angel shudder against him as she climaxed, her back arching against the wall.

And that was it.

Raphael pulled himself from her as he came. He couldn't stop his knees from buckling as his entire body relinquished to her. Her arms were around his neck, grasping at his shoulders, clawing at his jacket, trying to hold on, not just to him, but to this moment. As he held her, knees still trembling, something washed over him; warm and relentless and blinding, like the light that took Donatello, like the fire that took Casey. And as he began to collapse, his entire body shaking as he came undone, he wondered if this was what it was like to die; to be made infinite.


	6. Chapter 6

When she asked him if he wanted to stay, he didn't so much say yes as sit down on the bed beside her. Angel turned her back to Raphael, pulled her tank top up over her head, over her hair, and laid back in bed. He flicked off the lights and the room went dark; black and empty save for the dim little lamp at her bedside. The lace shade was old and yellowed, and the damn thing barely put out any light at all, but it was enough to see by. Raphael wondered if it had belonged to Angel's grandma. Lace didn't really seem like Angel's style.

He sat on the bed beside her, saying nothing, careful not to touch her. Did she want him to touch her? His brow creased as he considered it. She had asked him to stay, after all. Raphael watched, eyes lingering on where the sharp lines of her muscled shoulders met the sea of the sheets billowing around her. As her breathing became rhythmic and steady, Raphael exhaled a sigh of relief. He would stay. For a little while.

Following one last glance over his shoulder to ensure that she was asleep, Raphael fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. The lighter snapped open between his fingers, cutting through the silence and the dark. Neither the sound nor the light stirred her. Cigarette safely between his lips, he shrugged off his jacket, let it slump onto the floor beside the bed. Beside her. He watched her shoulders rise and fall with calm, steady breaths, his gaze falling on her warm brown skin in the dusky golden light. He laid beside her on her lumpy old standard-issue mattress and stared up at the ceiling. There was something comforting about how the smell of his cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of her quarters; like musty sheets and old paint, like the poorly recycled stale air they all shared below.

As he adjusted a few flat pillows behind his neck, the bed creaked beneath them. Angel turned and draped herself over him. Raphael bristled. He felt the heat rise in his face as her arm crossed his torso, her head resting on his plastron. Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered, but otherwise, she did not stir. The turtle sniffed in irritation; he wasn't sure why she was so tired when he had done all the work, but whatever. It was kinda cute. He glanced down at her, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath, and his posture softened slightly beneath her. His lips almost settled into a smile around his cigarette as his eyes drifted down the slope of her shoulders, past where her waist dipped into her hips, to where the crests of her hip bones disappeared beneath the old, discolored sheets that entwined them.

A pang of regret wrenched at his gut. So many years of glancing at the ground when she walked by, of avoiding her gaze – her smile. Nearly a decade of grunting awkwardly in response when she said hello, of looking at his food, not at her, when they all ate dinner together. But he could still remember the first time he had seen her; _really_ seen her.

Casey had called late that night. He was bouncin' at some club downtown and couldn't get to her in time. Raph had to go. So Raphael flew across the rooftops of the Bronx with the autumn wind, whipping the tails of his bandana around his face, cold and bitter. And there she was. He spied Angel from his perch above, tapping her boot, waiting in line to get into some back alley club. The turtle was careful not to get too close to the edge, or the light, but he could tell it was Angel amidst the group of girls - Angel with her unmistakable purple hair hanging down to her exposed midriff. She must have felt his eyes on her because she glanced up, and the light caught the glitter on her face, and he saw her. He saw Angel. Not the little brat who was always breaking curfew; not Casey's little sister; not some kid: Angel. There was something about the defiance in her eyes, the way she held his gaze even though she couldn't even see him in the shadows, that told him she could handle herself just fine. So he left. Later he told Casey he couldn't find her. Must've already gotten through the door by the time he got there. And while he listened to Casey as he shouted and mumbled and started sentences and never finished them about how much trouble Angel was gonna get herself into, Raphael just thought about all the shit he and his brothers pulled at her age, and he knew she was going to be just fine.

But that was before his brothers disappeared; before his best friend died; before their family fell apart. Raphael's expression softened, became gentler. If everything hadn't fallen apart, they never would've come together. Without a doubt, he knew. He knew that if Casey were there, now – he wouldn't be in this bed next to her. Because Angel would still be the little sister his best friend never had. That Casey never could have seen her as anything else. He loved the little girl they pulled out of that cage fight too much, and it blinded him to the woman she had become. Raphael might not have been the smart one, but he knew that wasn't fair to her. Then again, life wasn't fair.

Raphael was beginning to relax beneath Angel, his muscles unclenching, his shell settling into the bed they shared. And as he felt her chest rise and fall against him with each slumbering breath, nothing else seemed to matter.

With April there had been no afterwards. She had just shrugged her clothes back on over shaking shoulders and walked out. She had not asked him to come with her. She had not asked him to stay. And he hadn't felt any less empty than he had before they fucked. The hole in his heart just got wider. Raphael's face settled into a frown. He should have known she would never love him. She would never love him like she loved Casey.

The turtle gingerly traced the edge of Angel's ear, tucking an errant strand of damp hair behind it so that he could see her face. Her eyelashes fluttered over her cheeks and, for the first time, Raphael realized that they were dusted with faint freckles. She shifted her weight and made a sound that might have been a word if she hadn't still been asleep. The edges of Raphael's muzzle turned up in a slight smile. Angel stretched out languidly against him.

"I wanna come with you," she replied; her voice was far-away, drowsy.

"Like hell you are," Raphael chuckled, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Angel craned her neck, pulling her damp hair over her shoulders and out of her face. She looked up at him with lidded eyes, heavy with sleep. "I'm serious, Raph."

"So 'm I," the turtle grunted, tapping his cigarette a little harder than necessary as he ashed it over the side of the bed.

"Raph –" she started to say his name the way that she did, annunciating every syllable – and Raphael tensed beneath her.

"Can we not ruin this by talking?" he snapped. Like an asshole. Classic Raphael. He sighed in exasperation. " _Please_?" he added, trying to take the edge off.

Angel's eyes were on him now, plum colored brows knitted together in irritation. "Don't be an asshole, Raph."

Raphael rolled his eyes. Why the fuck did she have to bring this up? Why couldn't she just let it be? Why couldn't she just go back to sleep? This is what he got for trying to be sweet. Now she was just awake and all pissed off again. The turtle fidgeted beneath her, his entire body tense once more. He ashed his cigarette again, bringing his thick forefinger down on the rod with too much force, snapping it in half.

" _Shit,_ " he muttered.

Angel exhaled a sigh of exasperation. "You can't smoke that."

She lurched over his torso, and Raphael's eyes widened. She was naked. Totally stark ass naked. The turtle gulped. She was clothed when they fucked. Mostly. _Shit._ His eyes fell over her perfectly toned ass, and he felt his stomach pitch and twist. It wasn't that he didn't want to look at her ass. Quite the opposite in fact. It was just - he didn't know they were quite at the Being Naked Is No Big Deal place. Admittedly, he had never had that with anyone. Ever. His muscles tensed thinking about how much more experienced she was.

Angel flopped over the edge of the bed and produced the pack of cigarettes and the lighter from his jacket. Raphael frowned. He had only taken the damn thing off because he thought she was asleep. The lighter clicked between her fingers, and he watched as the cigarette flared red between her lips. She took a drag and exhaled like a natural.

Raphael cocked a brow ridge. "Casey woulda killed you if he knew you smoked."

"Yeah, well, Casey isn't here." Angel took another quick drag before offering him the cigarette. Her eyes darted to the sheets, trying to conceal the hurt she knew he would see in them. "'Sides. I only smoke on special occasions."

The turtle's face scrunched into a disgruntled grimace, but he took the cigarette from her nonetheless. Her eyes caught his in the dark, and she held his gaze. Angel's fierce brown eyes looked right through him; through his anger and his disaffected stare. Raphael's mouth formed a taut line across his muzzle. He knew what she wanted. He wasn't stupid. He knew she wanted him to acknowledge that this was special. That they were special. He gave her face a measuring glance, and his eyes caught on her lips; how they were curled in a slight smirk.

"Whatever you say, Ange," he said.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, and then she was settled against him again. He felt her damp hair fall against the skin at the edge of his bridge, and his skin became gooseflesh; tingling with the sensation of her closeness. Raphael inhaled, trying to steady his breath - and his heart. Her head was on his chest now. His face crumpled up. She had to know this was special. He wouldn't have stayed if it wasn't. Raphael put his arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze.

"What d'you miss about New York?" She asked, and he felt her head tilt up, but he did not look at her. "Old New York, I mean."

He didn't answer. She knew he hated sappy shit like this. Why was she even askin? He took another drag. When he didn't respond, she went on. That was one thing he'd always loved about Angel. No one could ever say she was shy.

"I miss pierogi," she said, to herself, and the dark.

"Pierogi?" he chuckled. "Not, like, Puerto Rican food?"

She shifted to give his shoulder a soft, playful punch. "I know how to make that shit. But pierogies. Oh my _god._ What I wouldn't give for a fuckin' pierogi."

Angel snatched the cigarette from his mouth. Before he could protest, she was already inhaling. A plume of smoke emerged from between her lips. He inhaled, savoring her secondhand smoke. And, for a moment, it was like he was back in the city, standing on a corner in his trenchcoat, and stinking of sewage while goths and club kids slouched up against brick walls, smoking cigarettes. He would have given anything to go back to then; to go back to that - standing downwind from a draft of secondhand smoke, adrift in a haze of New York City smog and blaring horns.

"Did Case ever bring you anythin' from that Polish place on Manhattan ave?" Angel asked, and he was back in the bed, beside her. Below ground. "They failed health inspections, like, every other week," she laughed. "But oh my _god_. Their shit was the best."

Raphael felt strange. And then he realized - he was smiling. He hoped she couldn't see his face. Didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she could make him smile. Didn't want to ruin his reputation. He could feel her looking up at him, waiting for him to answer. Waiting for him to give her another part of himself. He sighed, and he submitted.

"Miss the noise," he said, his voice low. "The traffic, an' the trains. All the people." He gently reclaimed the cigarette from her, plucking it from her fingers. He let it burn for a moment between them. "It's too quiet here, ya know?"

"Yeah," she said, softly, words and thoughts trailing off into the dark.

"You thought I was gonna say Don," he exhaled, and smoke curled around his face. "Didn't you?"

"No…" He felt her bare shoulder shrug against his chest. "Don's a given."

He looked down at her and her eyes, so fierce and dark, seemed wounded, just for a moment. Like she knew. She knew. She knew the loss, and the anguish, and the grief. Just like he did. So he snubbed his cigarette between two calloused fingers, and flicked it onto the floor. And he kissed her.

Angel's lips parted against his, and Raphael felt a surge pulse through him, hotter and faster than riding lightning. And he knew if he wanted to, he could fuck her again. They could come together, hot and desperate in their need to be whole. He could have run his hands down over her bare body, over her breasts and her ass, and come into her, here on this old, creaky bed below. But he didn't. Instead, he just held her to him, tight against his chest. If she had been any slighter or smaller or frailer he might have crushed her. When she showed no signs of breaking, he only held her tighter.

And he held her, until his eyes felt too heavy to force open any longer.

#######

Raphael awoke with a start. He blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Shit. He totally fell asleep. Angel was still sleeping on his chest. The turtle slowly shifted his weight. He pulled away, gently, slowly, but Angel's arms were still crossed over his plastron. He said her name softly, but she did not stir. If he was going to leave he wanted to tell her. He wasn't a total asshole.

"Angel," he whispered again.

She murmured then turned to her side. Shaking his head, he leaned gently over the side of the bed, his fingers groping for the tiny cord dangling from her bedside lamp. With a click, her quarters faded to black. Raphael blinked back the darkness. For a moment, he could still see the outline of the discolored lace lampshade at her bedside table. And then it was gone. The dark swallowed it up, just like everything else.

Before he slid from the bed, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. The mattress creaked beneath them in protest as she shifted her weight, the sheets around her rustling as she readjusted. Raphael's feet hit the floor without a sound. Grateful for years of ninja stealth training, the turtle exited the room silently, swiftly. He closed the door quietly behind him, pulling just hard enough to make sure it latched. The sacred heart she had scratched into her door glinted in the low light.

He didn't even know what time it was. Living underground was strange that way. No one else was out, so he assumed it must have been late. His steps echoed solemnly down the corridor. Almost instinctively, his arms drifted to where the pockets of his jacket should have been. The turtle blinked. Shit. His jacket was still on Angel's floor. A low, irritated grumble escaped his mouth. What a fuckin' rookie mistake. Raphael clenched his fists. Stupid.

The turtle muttered a slough of self-deprecating slurs as he made his way through the warren. It wasn't as if he didn't think he'd ever see her again. It was just - stupid. Ninja vanished without a trace, they didn't leave their dirty laundry lying around. He was getting soft. Slow. Maybe April was wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't good enough to pull off -

Raphael paused at the end of the hall. There was a shadow outside his door.

He squinted, trying to make out who it was. It was almost too dark to see, but he could hear it. It was knocking. On his door. He could hear it. It was just loud enough to be heard over the low hum of the emergency lights. And then it turned to him, and he knew.

"April?" Her name escaped his lips like last words.

The light caught on her hair, and he knew it was her. Her height. Her build. Her new short hair. Raphael's heart quickened in his chest. She turned away, and he knew.

"April!" he cried.

But she was already gone.


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't the first time in his life that Raphael had felt like an idiot. Though this time he might have even admitted it. If someone had asked.

He had awoken that morning to his alarm blaring, ripping through the quiet that had settled over his fitful sleep. He knew he slept like shit because it hurt to turn his neck when he shifted to switch the alarm off. Must've been tossing and turning all night. Though after the night he had, it was about par for the course. Raphael draped an arm over tired eyes, blocking out what little light there was in his quarters. He should've just stayed with her. Then he might've actually gotten a decent night's sleep instead of tossing and turning, wondering who he had pissed off more: Angel by leaving, or April by staying.

What the hell was she doing at his door in the middle of the fucking night? Raphael pinched the bridge of his snout between two fingers, trying to massage how tired he was out of his face. He could feel the exhaustion under his eyes. Good thing no one seemed to care about what you looked like at the end of the world, because he was sure as hell that he looked like shit.

Of all the nights she could have come, she had to come when he was with Angel. In all the years he had known her, and dreamed of her, and longed for her, she had to come last night. Raphael forced himself to sit up. Life had a nasty sense of humor. Real nasty. The turtle struck a match on his knee-pad, and it flared to life, flickering tenuously in the dark. Cupping the cigarette and match before his mouth, waiting for it to light, he had to wonder...was it even her? It looked like her. And who else would have been knocking at his door at such a lonely hour?

Who else but the ghost of April O'Neil.

Raphael extinguished the match with a flick of his wrist. He had never been one for betting, but he would have wagered his shell that she hadn't even left her office since Casey died. Why had she come? Maybe she was just as lonely as he was. Maybe they were all lonely, at the end of the world. The terrapin exhaled smoke sharply through his slitted nostrils. Is that why he had taken the bait; why he had brought that beer back to Angel?

He frowned.

He thought about her head on his chest, how the weight of it, of her, there with him, made him feel anchored to the world in a way he hadn't felt in so damn long. Like after what had happened to Don, and Casey, and Mikey and Leo, there was one thing left in the godforsaken world worth giving a fuck about. And the best part was, she gave a fuck back. And she got it. She got him. Maybe she always had, and he had just been too angry to see it. Raphael nodded somberly to himself as he took another drag. That was probably it.

A hard knock came at his door. And for the first time in a long time, he wanted it to be someone other than April O'Neil.

The turtle opened the door to see Angel standing before him, framed by a halo of dying light. He stared back at her, blinking like he had never seen the light of day, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and his cigarette dangling from the edge of his lip, and he wondered - wondered what the hell she ever could have seen in him.

"Hey," Raphael grunted.

Angel looked back at him, her face somehow entirely ambivalent and utterly pissed off all at the same time. He had no idea how she did it, but she did it beautifully. He made an attempt to straighten himself up. Cleared his throat. Flicked his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with his bare foot. He had a feeling this wasn't going to end well.

"Thought you might want this."

She was cradling his crumpled up bomber jacket in his arms.

"Yeah," Raphael nodded, curtly. "Thanks."

Instead of offering it to him she slipped inside, weaving around him like a feral cat walking through a door someone left open on accident. Raphael sighed. He should've just stayed at her place. Now he just had two women pissed off at him. And contrary to what Don might've had to say on the subject, having two women pissed off at you wasn't just twice as bad; it was exponentially worse.

"Yeah, just come right in," the turtle shut the door behind her. "Make yerself right at home," he grumbled.

As Angel surveyed his quarters, Raphael suddenly felt very self-conscious of the pile of weights on the floor, gathering dust. Embarrassed by the punching-bag in the corner, slowly becoming one with the room as spiders wove their webs between it and the wall, the gossamer strands of their silk too collecting dust, catching whatever light there was in the recesses of his quarters. His face almost flushed thinking about every dustbunny creeping up around the floorboards; about the boxes half-way unearthed from beneath his bed, their contents strewn across the room from his attempts to excavate more of Casey's old cigarettes. He wasn't expecting company. He had never had any, before.

Raphael stood, arms across his plastron. His fingers tapped rhythmically over his biceps as Angel made her observations. She was dressed for work in her jumpsuit and boots, the heels of which clicked beneath her as she circled his unmade bed. The sound cut through the silence building between them. Every click made him grit his teeth a little harder as Angel only continued to assess her surroundings. What the hell was she expecting to find? Some vestige from his past? Something that would explain why he was such an emotionally constipated asshole? Newsflash; he had always been an emotionally constipated asshole. And everything from before that had ever mattered was gone now. All that was left was a box full of a dead man's cigarettes.

The turtle hooked his thumbs in the leather belt slung across his shell. Why wasn't she screaming at him? He left. She had every reason to be pissed. Shifting his weight, he watched her, waiting for her to blow. Anger he understood. Anger he knew how to deal with. Raphael knew a thing or two about being angry. He knew how to let the fire inside him consume all the air in the room until everything was burning. It was what he did best.

He watched her staring at the motorcycle diagrams pasted on the walls, barely covering the cracks beneath them, bowing out where the wall was warped from age and neglect. He watched her and wished she would scream at him. He wished she would scream; say _anything_. Because anything was better than the silence.

Raphael awkwardly cleared his throat.

Angel looked over her shoulder at him, fierce brown eyes so sorrowful that it hurt him to look at her. He knew that his was no one's fault but his own. He could hear her fingers tightening around his jacket, making the old, worn leather creak and crease. "When do you have to go?"

"A coupla weeks," he sniffed. Tugged at the knot in his bandana. "Give or take."

Angel nodded somberly, and Raphael's heart sank. There was something about the way she was looking at him that cut right through him. And then he realized what it was. It wasn't that she was angry. It was that she was looking at him like he was already dead.

"Christ Angel, why d'ya hafta look so fuckin' sad!?" the turtle snapped.

"Because I _am_ sad, you asshole," she snapped back, her brow furrowed, lips drawn miserably across her face.

She shoved his jacket into his chest, and strode across the confines of his quarters. As her hand reached for the door, Raphael felt his chest tighten. Breath hitched in his throat and the anger dissipated, the icy grip of fear creeping in to grip his heart. He had pushed her away for years, but now the thought of never seeing her again -

The turtle darted between her and the door, hoping to catch her. Hoping it wouldn't be too late.

"Come on, Angel," he implored, trying his damndest to make his gravelly voice as tender as he could. "Don't be like that."

"Like _what_?" she growled, bristling at his touch.

"Like you're losin' your shit," he spat back reflexively.

"I am losin' my shit!" she shouted. "I'm totally -"

And just like that, she was crying. She couldn't even bring herself to finish her sentence. It was too late. Angel was crying. Raphael stiffened. He had never seen Angel cry. Even after her grandmother died, he had never seen her cry. They had stood together in the fiery ruins of the world, faces awash in ash, hearts cleaved in two, and she had not cried. But now she stood before him, shoulders shaking, face streaked with the kohl that lined her eyes, weeping. And he did not know what to do.

"Uh," he began, painfully awkward and woefully unequipped to fix what he had so obviously broken. "Christ. Angel," he stammered.

Angel collapsed against him, her shoulders heaving with every sputtering breath. "First my gran, then my brother – t-then Casey," she sputtered, a trembling mess he was trying to wrap in his arms. "Not you. I can't –" Angel forced the words out between the sobs that wracked her entire body.

Angel wasn't a girl anymore; she was an earthquake. She made his entire world tremble, threatening to bring everything crashing down around them.

"Shhh," Raphael said softly, painfully awkward in his attempt to soothe her. He did not know what else to say. He knew her loss, and he knew her grief, but there were no words for it. Not that he could grasp. He had never been good with words. Or feelings. But he knew. At the end of the world, everyone had a body count.

"Shhh," he murmured again, trying to sound comforting.

"You think I _want_ to cry in front of you?" she stammered, each word belabored by shuddering breaths sucked in between sobs. Her chest heaved against his, shoulders shaking; her face was hot and wet and clammy against his neck. "Fuck," she choked the swear out like a prayer. Like she wasn't even speaking to him anymore. Like she was calling out into the dark, into nothing, hoping in a world without hope for absolution.

The turtle held her tighter, trying to stave how her shoulders shook in his broad inhuman hands. And there was a part of him that was sorry; he was so fucking sorry he had hurt her like this. But the rest of him was just angry. Angry at himself for giving in; for taking the bait; for taking solace in her, even though he knew it was only going to hurt her. Like this. He rubbed her back again, the rough cotton of her jumpsuit wrinkling under his fingers. He could feel her tears rolling down his neck, collecting in the place where his skin met the edge of his plastron. Somehow he was her hurt, and her comfort, and the repository for her despair all at once. Fuck. It was confusing and infuriating and yet – it was better than April pretending not to feel anything at all. Like she was already dead, even though she was cursed to keep on living.

Raphael just kept running a hand over her back, and what began as an uncomfortable attempt to soothe her slowly became less robotic. Stiff, brief pats on her back became long, tender strokes, and Angel became still in his arms. Her breathing almost sounded as if it was back to normal when he heard her stammer - "Shit," she sniffed. "I've gotta go to work."

She looked at him with watery, kohl smeared eyes and sighed. "My makeup's totally fucked, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

That almost made her laugh. Almost. He could see it in the way her shoulders shrugged, just slightly; how the corner of her lips tugged, just a little. But she did not laugh.

"Come on," he squeezed her hand.

Raphael led her by the hand to his bathroom, where Angel promptly plopped down on the toilet. The porcelain clattered beneath her, and Raphael tried not to think about the state of every surface he should have cleaned before she came over. He turned on the tap, stifling the impulse to tap his foot on the floor while he waited for the water to get warm. Pipes groaned and rattled behind the walls.

"Tell her you won't go."

Raphael blinked. "'Scuse me?"

His eye caught a glimpse of her in the mirror above the sink, all hunched over herself, her hair in her face.

"Tell her you won't go," Angel repeated, her head in her hands. "We both know it's suicide."

The turtle kept his eyes downcast as he squeezed out the washcloth into the sink. Lukewarm water rushed over his hands. It almost felt good. "Y'know I can't do that."

"Then let me come with you," she choked.

"No," the turtle dabbed her face with the washcloth, already turning cold.

"And I thought Leo was the one with the bullshit hero syndrome," Angel sniffed, trying not to cry.

Raphael frowned. "Don't even get me started."

As Angel's sniffles abated, Raphael dabbed the cloth beneath her eyes in an attempt to wipe away the streaks of kohl dripping down her face. The rag was coarse, and he could feel it dragging over the soft skin of her cheek. He tried to be gentle. And tender. And all the kind things he knew she deserved. But mostly he was just smearing her eyeliner around, leaving her skin red and chafed and irritated.

Raphael sighed. "You might wanna do it."

He handed her the rag, and she began vigorously dragging it over her face, raking it over her cheeks, trying to wash away everything that had come undone with her sadness. When she paused, Raphael felt some small sense of relief. Thank Christ that was over. Maybe they could go back to normal, now. Whatever normal was. The light above them flickered, and Raphael shifted his weight beside her. Waiting. But she just sat there on the toilet, her face buried in the washcloth.

"Ange," he began. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay. But that couldn't be anything more than a lie.

Raphael heard her take a shuddering breath behind the washcloth, and watched, helplessly, as her shoulders began to shake again. As Angel hunched over the toilet, her shoulders trembling, weeping into in his ratty old washcloth, he hated himself for all the self-control he lacked. He had tried to stay away from her, to keep his distance; to keep her safe. But in the end, he just gave in to his emotions. Like he always did. And now people were getting hurt. Like they always did. The turtle took a deep breath and bent over, hoisting Angel up in his arms. The washcloth fell from her hands, slumping on the floor.

He carried her out to his room, and she clung to his neck, hands wet from that damn washcloth and her own tears. Bending slowly, he set her down gently in the mess of his unmade bed and lay down beside her. And let her cry.

When she rolled over on her side, her head slumping on his plastron under a veil of purple tresses, her shoulders still shuddering with every heaving, wet breath she took, he just put his arm around her and let her cry. Maybe she just needed to let all the grief spill out of her, until there was nothing left. Nothing but the silent rift the dead left behind.

Had she even cried for Casey? He squeezed her a little tighter and felt the warm wet of her tears on his armored chest. Was she mourning Casey's death and his, even though she could still hear his heart beating beneath the hardness of his shell? Even though she could feel the heat of his skin against hers? He wanted to shake her - to shout until his lungs burst that he was still here, still _alive_ \- that he was coming back.

But he didn't want to make any more promises he could not keep.

So he held her tighter.

At the end of the world, they were all just walking dead anyway.

But here and now, they were still alive. They had survived. Together. He couldn't tell her what that meant to him, but he could show her. Raphael had never been good with words. Or feelings. But action he could do.

The turtle cupped her face in his hand, and brought her close enough to kiss her cheek. He could taste the salt on her skin and he remembered that night with April in the dark. But Angel was not April. Raphael blinked, and there Angel was - looking up at him, her resilient brown eyes rimmed with red, dark lashes thick with her tears.

She kissed him, and his lips parted for her, like they had parted for no one else. And as their tongues met they were quick to find the rhythm of each other's bodies once again. Angel pushed herself up against him, kissing him harder, until his breath was ragged and his heartbeat was a clap of thunder in his chest, his skin prickling electric at her touch. Raphael broke their kiss, and as he pulled away he realized she was still shaking. He ran his hands down her neck, to her shoulders, kissing her throat, trying to quell the surge of fear and hurt that had rushed over her, relentless as a wave crashing over itself in a storm.

His kisses punctuated each heaving breath, stymying her tears. His hands slid over her warm, brown skin, pulling her closer to him, anchoring her here, with him, in his messy bed. His tail throbbed at the base of his shell, readying for his cock to emerge, ready to fuck all of this pain away.

"Do you want this?" he asked again between shallow breaths. Like it was the first time.

This time she said nothing. This time, she just kissed him again, like they had done this a thousand times. As her face smashed against his, he felt her nodding, despite all the anguish and every tear. And it was like she hit him with lightning. He yanked her jumpsuit down over her hips, and she was pulling her tanktop up over her head, trying to kick her boots off, then gracelessly pulling the laces out - fingers clumsy with desperation and desire.

Raphael slid her panties down over her thighs, and his tail descended, and his cock emerged, slick and eager for her. The nightstand rattled as he yanked its drawer open, groping for a condom. He tore the wrapper open, and it slid over the length of his cock, straining slightly to accommodate his girth. And then he was done, just trying not to feel embarrassed by his desperate, clumsy fingers. All he wanted was that serenity with her, just once more before everything went to shit.

Even though in his heart, he knew it already had.

None of this could be undone.

But maybe they didn't need to be undone. Maybe they had meant to come together all along. Maybe the truth was that they were both so broken now that they fit together perfectly. And even at the end of the world, there was still hope there.

Raphael thrust up inside her, the length of him plowing into the heart of her, wet with desire and both their fluids. Angel drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. Her back arched over the mess of his bed as he gripped her hips in his hands, pulling her as close to him as he could. As his enormous inhuman hands encircled her waist, he wondered why she wanted this, wanted _him_ , when she could have something normal. Something that didn't hurt so fucking much. But then her eyes found his, and she bit her lip, and all of those thoughts vanished in an instant. At the end of everything they had come together, and that was all that mattered.

Afterwards they laid in a heap amidst the mess of his sheets. Angel's breath had returned to normal; her chest rose and fell with calm, lengthy breaths, and in that, Raphael took some comfort. They hadn't fixed anything. But they had fucked. And now, in the afterglow of their coupling, the burden of living felt a little less heavy.

"Is this a thing?" he rolled onto the side of his shell to face her, trying to make it all a little less horrible. ""Cuz it feels like a thing."

"D'ya want this to be a thing?" Angel cocked a pierced brow at him. Then she scrunched her eyes shut and pinched her nose between her fingers. "Never mind. Don't answer that."

Angel swung her legs over the side of the bed and wriggled into her underwear. She pulled her tank top over her shoulders as she walked away, and Raphael's lips curled into some semblance of a smile, watching her fantasticly firm asscheeks peeking out from beneath her panties before she disappeared through the bathroom doorway.

The bathroom light clicked on and he heard her sigh. "No amount of makeup is gonna fix this."

"Y'look fine," Raphael grunted from bed.

"Eyes are all puffy from cryin'," she muttered, emerging from the bathroom. Though he could not see her face, or her eyes – downcast as she tilted her head to throw her hair back up in a ponytail - he stood by his words.

"You look fine," he repeated, trying to sound reassuring.

"Yeah yeah," Angel shimmied into her jumpsuit. "Ugh." She made a face.

"What?" Raphael's brow ridge quirked. He could see in the low light that her eyes were kind of puffy. A little red. But it didn't matter. It didn't make her any less beautiful.

"All of your shit is starting to smell like cigarettes."

"I kinda like it," he said. "Speakin'a which – wanna smoke?"

"Nope. Gotta go. Since you bounced, had to spread the work on the new tanks around," she plopped down beside him on the bed, yanking on her socks. Shoelaces flew furiously up her boots, guided by her nimble fingers. "Dia is _not_ happy about it."

"Well you just tell her next time the motor on her vibrator goes out I'll fix it for her," Raphael shrugged nonchalantly beside her in bed. "Free of charge."

"Ha!" Angel crowed, tightening the laces through the final eyelet of her boot. And then she cocked her head to the side, and her purple locks spilled over her shoulders. And she smiled at him. "You can be real sweet, you know that?"

"Don't tell nobody," Raphael grumbled.

"I've gotta go," Angel said again. Then she squeezed his hand. "See you later?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "See ya later."

As the door clicked shut behind her, Raphael flopped back into bed. Laying on his shell, arms behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a shard of hope. And he was going to hold on to it hard. Even if it cut him open.

As his carapace settled into the mess of his unmade bed, he got a whiff of something nasty. Raphael's muzzle scrunched up, nose wrinkling in disgust. It was him. Christ, he was rank. Rank from sex, but still. Rank. He had the shower on within seconds. Raphael let it run, letting the heat build. He knew he shouldn't let it go like that; that it was a waste of water. But whatever. It was all just gonna get recycled anyway. While he waited he rooted around the room in an attempt to excavate a towel.

In the process of deconstructing a pile, he almost considered cleaning his quarters. Maybe even making his bed. But when he found a towel underneath his bomber jacket - which he promptly tossed onto his unmade bed - he abandoned the idea entirely.

As Raphael swung the towel over his shoulder, someone knocked on his door. His heart nearly skipped beneath his plastron. Angel. It had to be Angel, skippin' her shift. Raphael smirked. He was such a bad influence.

The turtle swung the door open, quick to prop himself up against the door frame. With his towel slung over his shoulder, he felt so fucking slick.

"Wanna join me?" he grinned wolfishly.

But this time it wasn't Angel.

It was April O'Neil.


	8. Chapter 8

"Shit, April, I'm sorry," Raphael sputtered, scrambling to cover himself. "I, uh," he awkwardly cleared his throat. " - thought you were someone else."

"Clearly," April replied, her voice flat.

Heat rose in the turtle's face. Feeling very naked, he pulled the towel off of his shoulder and tied it around his waist. It was awkward cinching the damn thing around his shell, but without his jacket, or even his belt or his pads, it seemed like the best solution.

"Walk with me?" April asked, her voice treading a tenuous line between commanding and imploring.

"Yeah, sure," Raphael glanced over his shoulder, towards the sound of the shower that was steaming up his bathroom. "Gimme a minute."

He closed the door gently behind him, not bothering to invite her in. What good would it do for her to see his mess; smell their sweat on his unmade sheets. He smelled bad enough as it was. Oh well. Maybe he could get a pass on personal hygiene, since it was the apocalypse and all. Raphael shut off the shower. He yanked on his pads and tied his belt. Shrugged on the bomber jacket. He wore it like armor over his scars.

April was still standing outside his door when he emerged from his quarters. She was pouring over various reports on a pocket-sized tablet. When she looked up at him with those beautiful green eyes he felt his chest tighten. Her face was lined with age and grief now, but her eyes – her eyes were just the same as when he met her all those years ago. Before they were broken.

"Coffee?" she asked.

He grunted in acquiescence, but turned away from her, fumbling awkwardly for his keys in his pocket. Resentment bubbled up inside him like magma, ready to erupt from just below the surface. He could feel the heat, and the pressure, pushing up against each of the cracks inside him, making every fucking flaw flare up, red and furious. All this time and she came to him _now_. And after everything that had happened between him and Angel, he still felt his stomach lurch when April looked at him like that. Like he was more than just a friend. It made him furious. At her. Himself. At everything. He locked his door.

"Coffee sounds good."

They walked in tandem, silently striding down the hallways. Unsure where they were going, Raphael followed April's lead. He had stiffened up considerably since her arrival. Thinking about the ridiculous pose he answered the door with only made him more rigid, so he walked with his shoulders back, arms tight against the sides of his shell. He glanced furtively at her from the corner of his eye. She seemed so peaceful. But that all seemed wrong somehow. A lie.

He couldn't stop thinking about the last time he saw her, the way she seemed so transparent in her grief, eyes heavy and dark with sleeplessness, cheeks sallow like she hadn't eaten in days. How she had gone from being the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to looking so old and broken by grief in only a matter of months. She had survived so much. They all had. But Casey's death was like Don's disappearance.

It had changed everything.

Lost in his thoughts, Raphael hadn't realized his glance had turned into a less than subtle stare. When she caught him looking at her, he felt his cheeks tingle red with embarrassment. Averting his gaze, he trained his eyes back on the cement halls of the warren, which seemed to stretch on, endlessly gray into nothing.

When they just kept on walking, Raphael glanced back at his old friend.

"You don't wanna do coffee in your office?" he asked.

Personal coffee-makers were few and far between below, but he was sure she had one back at her place. One of the few perks of being their illustrious Rebel Leader. Casey had never been a big fan of coffee (he preferred energy drinks), but April loved it. Raphael could recall more than one occasion where she went on about how she missed real coffee more than she missed anything else. But she drank the same shit as the rest of the warren residents. Most residents' sole purpose for going to the mess hall was to fuel up on what passed for coffee nowadays. They brewed the stuff in industrial sized batches, and most people had the good sense not to ask where it came from. But at least it was free.

April shrugged, smiled softly. "I thought it might be nice to get out."

"Ha! Out!" Raphael barked. "That's funny," he grinned. "You're funny."

April said nothing, only continued to smile.

The turtle felt his chest tighten again, so he looked quickly to the floor, hoping that the color of his face wouldn't give him away. As his heartbeat quickened, so did his step.

At this hour the cafeteria was a ghost town. Most everyone on assignment was already at their stations. A scant number of night shifters drifted between tables, eyes bleary and downcast, hands tenuously clutching steaming cups of something that was not coffee. Raphael wondered if it was supposed to help them sleep.

April gestured to an empty table and Raphael sat on the adjoining bench. Propping his elbow up on the table, he sat and watched her as she made her way across the cafeteria. Dreary night shifters paused as she passed amongst them. To them she was more than the ghost of April O'Neil. She was their Rebel Leader. April glanced over her shoulder and flashed a smile at him, almost as if she couldn't believe the night shifters' reaction to her presence. Raphael smiled back. She almost looked like herself again.

He was still smiling wryly when she returned with a cup of coffee in each hand. His old friend set the coffee down before them and slid onto the bench beside him. April wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. Raphael blew on his own cup of coffee. The one thing that the cafeteria coffee had going for it was that it was always hot.

Maybe too hot.

Raphael yanked his hand away from the cup. Even with his calloused fingers he could feel how fucking hot that coffee was through the ceramic vessel that contained it.

"How you doin'?" Raphael asked through gritted teeth, still shaking his hand.

"Fine," April's fingers tightened around her cup. "And you?"

Raphael stubbornly attempted to take a sip of his scalding coffee. "Stayin' busy," he said, just as he had the last time.

He wondered if she wanted him to elaborate; to confirm her suspicions. She had to have known, when she came to find his quarters empty in the middle of the night. She had to have known, after his name started showing up on all the reports next to Angel's. Maybe Michelangelo had even told her that Angel had come looking for him that night. Nothing happened in the warren without April knowing about it. She ignored most of the minor offenses as long as people cleaned up after themselves. The homebrew incident on level three, for example. But he wasn't sure if she could ignore him and Angel any longer. If it wasn't already obvious, it would be when she reviewed the CCTV tapes with Michelangelo later.

Would she even care? Raphael's face settled into a disaffected stare. April wouldn't even talk about what had happened between them. Whatever. He could accept that. But would it fucking kill her to ask about Angel? After all, they had been friends - once. But as the fight against Shredder and the Foot had worn on, April had drifted further and further away from all of them. Raphael doubted he would have even seen her if not for his intense friendship with Casey. He never knew what had happened between April and Angel. He hadn't asked. After Leo left and Michelangelo lost his arm, the friendship between the two of them had hardly seemed paramount. Like everything else at the end of the world, it had just crumbled away. Like the rest of their family.

"Yep," Raphael grimaced, unsure whether he should repeat himself, just to smash something into the awkward silence swelling up between them.

"That's good," April replied, her hands squeezing the mug.

Despite his vexation, Raphael's brow creased in concern for her. That had to be too hot for her hands. He felt the heat through his battered, calloused skin, worn rough from years of fighting with the sai. From working on his motorcycle. From living. He could not help but notice that her soft pale flesh flared pink.

Watching her squeeze that cup so tightly it could break right there in her hands, he wondered how much longer she could pretend to keep it together.

"April," he said softly, setting his own cup on the table. "Come on. It's too hot to hold like that," he implored. But still, she held the cup tight. "That's why they have handles, ya know."

He met his old friend's gaze, and saw the endless grief in them; the relentless, grasping emptiness of loss threatening to drag her under as she sat there right beside him.

"Come on," he said again, gently. He put a hand over hers. "Don't make me pry that shit outta your hands."

Her hands drifted away. "I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I'm still…"

She tried, but she could not finish her sentence.

"It's cool," Raphael replied. "I get it."

His eyes fell on her hands, and the pink, tender flesh of her fingers.

"I've been working on the arrangements for your mission," April straightened herself. Put her hands in her lap. "It's been a good," she paused. Took a deep breath. "- Distraction."

"How's that goin'?" Raphael asked, though he was sure he did not want to know the answer. But like she said, it was a good distraction.

"That's actually why I came by," April's eyes lit up with a manic spark. "We're ready to launch. Tonight."

The look in her eyes might have frightened him, if the implications of her words hadn't immediately sent him into a spiral. " _Tonight_!?" Raphael said a little too loudly.

The cafeteria came to an abrupt, unnatural silence. The night shifters, once quiet, were now silent. The scant number of barely conscious apparitions clutching their sanctioned sleep aides was utterly still, frozen, watching with eyes as wide as they would open.

"I told Angel I had like, two weeks," he hissed under his breath.

"R and D met their deliverables early," April stated matter-of-factly. "We're ready to roll tonight."

"I can't -" Raphael began. He groped for the words, but they only slipped through his fingers. Unable to grasp them, to explain, he just sat there, mouth agape. He couldn't go. Not tonight.

"I don't understand what the issue is," April said, flatly. "You've been debriefed. You know the tech. And the terrain. You've done a hundred runs like this one."

That wasn't entirely true. Raphael had done hundreds of runs like this one. But this was his first solo run since the Shredder's take over. Solo runs were strictly forbidden by Splinter, and after that, by April. In the beginning, he was always itching for a fight, his fingers ready for the prongs of his sai between them, his heel aching for the surge of electricity - the electric pop and crackle of a Foot Bot's head ripping from its body when he slammed it with a crescent kick. But the bots just kept getting bigger. Stronger. Faster. Eventually it wasn't safe to go alone. She had never sent anyone out alone. Not like this; not with this big of a payload.

But desperate times called for desperate measures or some shit.

"For starters," Raphael dragged a hand over his face. "I slept like total shit last night. And Angel. Christ," he pinched the bridge of his snout between two fingers. "She's totally gonna lose it."

"You can't be serious," April replied dispassionately."We're trying to turn the tide against the Shredder and his legions of death machines and all you can think about are your fuck buddy's _feelings_?"

The turtle blinked back at her. "'Scuse me?"

His anger was staunched only by disbelief.

"Don't call her that."

Raphael's voice was grave, and it unnerved April. He could tell. He could see it in the way her eye widened, just slightly; the way the corner of her lip jerked, just so. But then she frowned in contempt of his defiance.

"That is what you are," April leaned back against the cafeteria table. "Isn't it?"

"I mean it," he said, his voice just as serious. "Don't."

April stared back solemnly at him. "I had no idea you were so serious about - "

"How the fuck would you?" Raphael interrupted viciously. "You've barely even spoke to me since Case –" his fingers curled into fists, but he stopped himself. "And when you do even bother to talk ta me you call me on the goddamn PA like I'm some fuck up bein' called to the principal's office!"

April's eyes were wide now.

"And even then," he chuckled bitterly. "Even then, we don't even really talk. Not _really_. So how the fuck would you know what I'm serious about? Huh?" he jabbed.

"You spend the last decade ignoring her and now you two are _serious_?" April asked, her voice disarmingly cold. "It's a little unfair to expect me to predict your erratic moods when I've got a war to win, don't you think?" She frowned. "Not even Donatello could do that."

Donatello. The trump card that invariably brought what was left of his family to its knees. Donatello's disappearance was the beginning of the end. Donatello's assumed death was a wound they had tried to suture shut again and again only to have it rip open over the smallest, stupidest shit. Something he might have liked. Something he actually owned. A word. A phrase. His name. The thing Raphael had learned the hard way about griefwas that you could feel nothing for days, months – years, and then everything all at once. All of the sorrow, and impotent rage, and every fucking miserable regret, all at once - and sometimes all it took was for someone to say his name. Donatello.

Then Leonardo. Then Michelangelo. Did she think this had been easy, watching them drop like flies? Watching everything he ever cared about fall away? He thought Casey's death might have helped her understand. But instead it had just made her hard. Cold. His death had left behind a shell of the person she once was. He saw it sitting next to him, this thing that looked like her, but it wasn't her. She wasn't April. And maybe she never would be again.

"Maybe I'm tired of being alone!" he snapped. He felt the fury leap up inside him, like a fire raking itself over a tree long dead - dry, and ready to be burned down. His breath heaved in his chest as his anger rose up inside him, the pressure building until he realized he had spoken her words. He spoke her words, and thought of the night Angel came to the garage and sat on the floor beside him, stubborn as ever and unapologetically unafraid of him, or his rage. Something gave way inside him. The tremors of his rage subsided. "Maybe you're not the only one who's hurtin', April. You ever think about that?"

Raphael spoke Angel's words, and he felt them in his heart as they flowed from his mouth, coursing smoothly as water over stone. He thought she might break then. He hoped that those words could get through to her, the way they had broken through to him that night. That they might pull her out from the grief she had been submerged so deeply in for so long. He could not watch her drown in it. Not anymore.

She just stared at him dispassionately. Her green eyes fell over his face, reflecting the harsh light that made everyone look sallow and gaunt; like shit. But those eyes didn't make his chest tighten, or his heart hurt. Not anymore.

"Angel is the only thing that makes me feel like I ain't gonna die alone in this hole," Raphael said. "So don't talk shit on my girl, ok?"

"Your girl?" April asked. He thought she might arch a brow, or cross her arms over her chest. But instead she just stared at him. "What would Casey think?" Her face was almost entirely expressionless. "She's practically your sister."

"Casey's dead," Raphael said, solemnly.

Her face remained unchanged despite the finality of his words. There had been no funeral. No memorial service. No nothing. He didn't even know where they had buried him.

And they did not talk about Casey. They did not say his name. And most importantly, they did not mention that he was dead. Not out loud. Not ever. So there was a small part of him that thought this might spark something in her. Some feeling.

But she only stood, slowly. Her face as somber as a statue in those old Art History books of Splinter's that were filled with marble gods and goddesses, frozen in time; blank, white eyes staring off into eternity, looking right through you.

"Casey is gone," she said, sternly, glancing over her shoulder at him. But this time, she did not smile. This time, her emerald eyes shone in the dying light, cold and bitter. "So it's time to finish what you two started."

And then she left. What was left of the night shifters parted before her, and she disappeared beyond the door, into the dark.

And as Raphael sat alone at the table with two cups of coffee, he decided that she was right. Someone needed to finish what he and Casey had started. And that someone was going to be him. So that all of this could be over.

For all of them.


	9. Chapter 9

Raphael lingered outside the shop door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket. His fingers curled around a piece of paper, growing damp in his clammy hands. He had written it for her. He had spent hours on it, writing it and then crumpling it up, frustrated by what blatant evidence it was of all his shortcomings. How he had never been good with words, or feelings. How shit his handwriting was. He had crumpled the damn thing up more times than he could count, then picked it back up and started all over again. Even after he had folded the note up, he could still feel every crease, every rage induced crinkle as his fingers ran over it where he'd jammed it into his pocket. He hadn't had a choice.

He was running out of time.

The turtle shifted his weight and tapped his bare feet on the cold, dry concrete. He couldn't tell her. Not in person. She would just want to go with him. He knew she wouldn't take no for an answer. Christ. She was so damn stubborn. But he wasn't going to hurt her any more than he already had. Raphael took a deep breath. He wasn't going to let her die because of him.

The click of a boot heel approaching from the length of the empty hall wrested Raphael from his thoughts.

"Dia!" he shouted.

Dia Sato's brows furrowed beneath heavy, dark bangs. "'Bout time you got back to work," she said. He couldn't tell if she was teasing him or not.

"That aint' why I'm here," Raphael explained, pulling the note from his jacket pocket. He held it out to her with an unexpected tenderness. "Can y'give this to Angel for me? Please?"

The young woman cocked a brow incredulously.

"It's important."

She rolled her hazel eyes, but held out her hand for the note regardless. "Why can't you just give it to her yourself?"

"Can't. Gotta go," the turtle shoved his hands back into the pockets of his jacket, his mouth a harsh line across his muzzle. Don't say anything else. Don't give anything away. He turned on his heel to walk away, then paused. He rolled his shoulders, shrugging his jacket off. "Can you give 'er this, too?"

"You sure?" there was hesitance in the way Dia reached for the jacket; the way she took it in her hands, the leather crinkling between her fingers.

"Yeah," Raphael murmured, then turned away. He wanted her to have it. If he got blown to smithereens, at least there would be one last thing left, in a world where no one left anything behind but a silent, stinging nothing. Not photographs, or trinkets; not a fucking thing that meant anything until they were dead. He thought about the box of Casey's cigarettes under his bed, and his fingers itched at his thigh. They almost felt empty without a cigarette between them, now. But he wouldn't need them where he was going.

He thought about her wearing it, like those girls in their boyfriend's members only jackets in movies like American Graffiti, and his chest tightened. The pressure built beneath his plastron, tightening around a heart that felt so fucking heavy it hurt.

"Yeah Dia, I'm sure."

He turned again, his eyes following the flickering lights that lined the concrete hall.

"She's been real happy today, you know," Dia said solemnly as he turned to open the hangar door. "This isn't gonna fuck that up, is it?"

"I hope not," Raphael said, so quietly and penitently that he wasn't even sure if she could hear him. Raphael did not pray. He did not believe. But he wanted it to be true.

#########

Above ground, miles from the closest entrance to the warren, Raphael turned the device over in his hands. It wasn't so different from the payload he and Casey had dropped the last time. A NNEMP small enough to be carried solo, but bigger than a grenade. More punch, April had explained that first mission. This time the exchange between them had been conducted in silence. He was grateful for that. Truthfully, he could barely even be bothered to listen the first time. He didn't need to know how it worked; all he needed to know was what he needed to do. Drop the load. Give the signal. Get out. Don't die.

Last time, this was a two man mission. That NNEMP wasn't that much smaller than a missile, and it couldn't be carried solo in addition to the launcher. So it was him and Casey against the Foot. It almost felt like old times, flying over rooftops, blood pumping hard in their veins, heart rates climbing in anticipation of giving some asshole the beat-down of a lifetime. They had done this a hundred times. A thousand times. But the last time – the last time, Raphael was the only one who made it out alive.

As much as it had felt like old times, there was a heaviness there that had never accompanied any of their previous midnight runs. A solemn pall, too heavy to shake. They knew they weren't invincible. As much as Donatello might have begged to differ, they weren't idiots. Not when shit got serious. Not when it mattered. So they followed orders. Kept the lines of communication open. Made the drop. And everything went to shit anyway.

They had been detected. Counter-measures were enacted by an unseen remote striker monitoring the complex perimeter the scouts had missed. It was an accident. No one could have anticipated that it would end that way. Not even April. Their attack was countered with a remote strike, and the blowback destroyed their communicators in an instant. All he remembered after that was screaming Casey's name to no one. To nothing. Not Home Base. Not April. Not Casey. No one. He screamed into the burning black, blood on his hands, tears streaking through the dirt and the dust that had settled over his cheeks.

But there would be no one to drag his body back if he died tonight.

Raphael inhaled, trying to steady his heart. Drop the load. Give the signal. Get out. Don't die.

It was insane to advance on alien technology with a jerry-rigged hunk of junk like the device in his hand, but if he was successful – if this new NNEMP could disable the armored Legion Bot systems like April said they could – they might actually have a chance. Raphael locked the NNEMP into the launcher, and hunched down, holding the weapon tight to his torso. Infiltrating the complex had been easy enough. No one was allowed outside at night on the surface. Curfew was strictly enforced, and the non-compliant were not so much punished as they were obliterated. No, it wasn't difficult to make his way through the darkness. Getting close enough to his target: that was the challenge. He had slipped into the manufacturing facility under the cover of night, unnoticed. And in that moment, he felt like a ninja again, reveling in being silent and unseen.

The turtle peered through the hole in the crumbling warehouse wall, and his eyes narrowed behind his mask as he peered through another window. In the pristine warehouse adjacent to the hovel he was hiding in, scores of robots were working the assembly Legion Bot line. There was something admittedly unnerving about watching robots just mindlessly making more robots. He tried not to think about it. He silently repeated the mantra of the night: Drop the load. Give the signal. Get out. Don't die.

This new weapon forced him to be in closer proximity to his target, but afforded him the advantage of better cover. Raphael was grateful for that – for cover. He had felt too exposed out under the open sky. Before the end of the world, Raphael had always loved being top-side. The turtle had relished the fresh air; drank it in as the wind whipped the tails of his bandana around his face. It was his escape. Now top-side just felt like a trap. As stifling as the recycled air of the warren was, there was some comfort in being concealed away from the world, after everything had crumbled before his eyes. He just had to make it a point not to think about how fucked they would all be if the support systems failed. Or if one of the tunnels collapsed. Or if the Shredder found them. Cornered them.

But tonight, tonight Raphael almost had the upperhand.

"This is Red One," the turtle said as he tapped the place where his ear might have been, activating the communication node taped to the side of his head beneath his bandana. "Area assessment complete."

"Confirmed, Red One," April's dispassionate voice crackled and popped in his ear. "You are showing on location."

Raphael slung the launcher over his shoulder. "Then let's do this."

He took a deep breath, and his finger hitched on the trigger. He closed his eyes, tried to steady his heartbeat one more time, and there she was. Smiling back at him with those fierce brown eyes, like she had smiled at him that morning. And he felt his chest tighten, thinking that might be the last time she ever smiled at him, like that – like he meant something. And then he opened his eyes, and she was gone, like everyone else before her. Raphael was alone.

So he exhaled and pulled the trigger.

This would be over soon enough.


	10. Chapter 10

He woke to the sound of screaming.

It took Raphael time to realize the screams were not his own. How much time - he did not know. Time felt strange. Stretched out, ambling on through a haze. Around him, someone was shouting, screaming something he could not understand. And then he realized that that was not because he couldn't hear, but because Angel was screaming in Spanish.

The turtle blinked and that small action, performed countless times before without thought or consequence, somehow felt like the most difficult thing he had ever done. A tiny, dimly lit room came into dim focus around him. He was in a hospital bed. A deflated IV bag hung just beyond the rails. The turtle attempted to flex fingers and toes in turn, and felt a crushing sense of relief when each one moved, albeit slowly; stiffly. Wherever he was, and whatever had happened to him, he still had all of his limbs.

"Just because he would die for you doesn't mean he should!" Angel was shouting in English now, her voice hoarse from screaming. From crying.

"Maybe you should let Raphael speak for himself, Angel," April's voice was a low growl, like a cornered animal.

"Maybe he could have if you hadn't almost gotten his fuckin' head blown off!" Angel roared.

She slammed her fist against the handrail on the bed, and the reverberations ran up Raphael's spine, cold as ice and ugly as coming down. The turtle's face twisted up involuntarily in agony, but he forced himself to sit up.

"Ladies, _ladies,"_ he grumbled, "can y' keep it down?"

He knew he was being patronizing, but he didn't care. They were being ridiculous. Here he was, all laid up in a hospital bed, and they were about to bite each other's heads off. Ridiculous.

"Raphael!"

She wasn't doing the thing. The thing she did with his name; annunciating every syllable in irritation. Instead she just sounded relieved. Raphael forced his eyes open, and he could see her through a haze, smiling at him. His Angel. She threw her arms around him and squeezed.

The battered turtle let out an involuntary wheeze and Angel released him from her embrace.

"Shit, I'm so sorry –" she stammered. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a goddamn bus," Raphael groaned, sinking back into his pillow. The turtle had actually been hit by a bus, once. It was late, and dark, and he crawled out of the wrong manhole at the wrong time. It was not a good night. And if he were being honest, truly honest with her, this felt so much fucking worse.

"What happened?" he asked, stubbornly attempting to blink through his hazy vision.

Angel's features hardened. "That EMP blew up in your face."

"NNEMP," April corrected, coldly.

"Whatever!" Angel snapped, whipping around to face April, obviously in no mood for any one's bullshit. Not even their Rebel Leader's.

Raphael realized that he could hear her, but he could not see her. April was somewhere in the dark. He blinked furiously, trying to focus. Trying to _see_. But he couldn't.

"What the hell does it matter what it's called?" Angel snapped. "It blew up and took his eye with it!"

"My eye?" Raphael's voice cracked.

Was that why he couldn't see? Slowly, he raised a hand to his face. His fingers gingerly grazed his cheek, just below his left eye, and he winced. His bandana was gone, but half of his face was wrapped in a bandage. Somehow it felt numb and raw, all at once. He blinked again, trying to focus his eye in the dark, but the room was beginning to spin.

"Fuck!" Angel whipped around around to face him, her features heavy with remorse. "Raph, I'm so sorry," she said. "We were going to tell you -"

The turtle almost scoffed. His fucking eye was gone. He knew he wasn't the smart one, but he was pretty sure he could have figured that out on his own.

"You're lucky your eye was all you lost," April said flatly, somewhere from the recesses of the recovery room. He could barely hear her. Everything sounded so fuzzy; so far away.

He knew what she was saying was true. The last thing he remembered was launching the NNEMP. He remembered his finger on the trigger. He remembered a flash of blinding light, an agonizing heat. And then everything went white. Raphael shook his head and immediately regretted it. Everything hurt.

"Did it work?" he choked out the words.

He needed to know. He had to know. It had to be worth it. All the sacrifice. All the death. All the loss. He just hurt so fuckin' bad. And he just wanted it to be over.

"No," April said, her voice grave."I'm sorry, Raphael."

Raphael had been willing to give up everything, and it hadn't even worked. He had accomplished nothing. Other than nearly blowing his own face off. The turtle's body slumped forward in the hospital bed, flopping over. Suddenly he was too heavy to hold himself up. Nausea rippled through him leaving him shuddering. Sweat beaded on his brow even though there was no warmth in the room.

Angel was shouting his name from the bedside, but she sounded as if she was miles away. Like screaming at him through a fog. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softer.

"Feel like I'm gonna puke." He could feel the bile rising in his throat.

"That's okay," she said, trying her best to sound reassuring. But he could hear it - the undercurrent of fear in her voice. "It's okay," she said again, trying to reassure them both.

As the turtle slumped forward, about to empty the contents of his stomach onto his lap, Raphael felt Angel's hand on his shoulder. The good one. The one that wasn't riddled with shrapnel and covered in scores of stitches. Her fingers squeezed his tricep, and her thumb grazed over the scaly skin exposed outside of his shell. When she touched him, he remembered to breathe.

Raphael's chest swelled beneath his plastron as he inhaled. The turtle closed his only remaining eye and exhaled. As he inhaled again, he was struck by a surge of pain. The agony ripped through him, white hot and lighting fast, and he gasped aloud. It knocked the wind from him, and he crumpled against the hospital bed.

Forcing his eye open, he desperately glanced around the room, trying to see - trying to orient himself. He felt like he was falling, spinning, spiraling out of control. Angel was still at his bedside, a blur of purple amidst the black closing in on both of them. He could hear her shouting.

"He needs more meds!" Her voice echoed in the darkness.

"He's just in shock," April's reply was entirely devoid of emotion. Raphael wondered if it was some bullshit power play, or if she simply did not care.

"Don't you have another syringe -" Angel began, her words almost slurring together, as if there was no way that she could possibly speak quickly enough.

He watched in a haze as the purple streak leapt up from his bedside and disappeared, swallowed up by the black. Though he could not hear April's reply, he could tell she protested. His good eye drooped closed. Angel and April fell silent, and the recovery room became quiet; though the dull, monotonous buzz humming in Raphael's ears did not abate. He wondered if he would ever know silence again.

"April," Angel's voice cut through the cloying silence like a knife. "You did this. So if you don't fix it," she paused. "I will."

If he hadn't been in agony, he might have smiled. He could just see her now, fierce brown eyes glinting in the low light, formidable as a tempest about to unleash itself. He had no idea what he'd done to deserve her, but he didn't have the time to mull it over. There was nothing but the pain.

Angel was speaking to him, trying to explain something, but he could not make out the words. Raphael felt pressure on his arm, rubbery and taut around his limp bicep. A tourniquet. Angel was trying to explain. To tell him what she was doing. To help him understand. But he didn't. The pain had suffused his entire body now, eking out through every inch of him. It was no longer a lightning strike, just a dull, blinding haze. He didn't even feel the needle slip in through his bruised, tender flesh. There was no gratitude when the pain began to fade; no relief.

Raphael just slipped into a blank, dreamless sleep.

When he woke again, the lights were so low they were barely on. He blinked back the dark and the haze of chemical induced sleep, attempting to orient himself. He realized he had no goddamn clue if it was day or night. He had no idea what time it was, much less what day. As he shifted his weight beneath the sheets, he wondered how long he had been out.

With considerable effort he was able to adjust his limbs and prop himself up, moving slowly in a futile effort to avoid the pain. Someone was sitting beside him, keeping a silent vigil over him while he slept. He searched for their face in the darkness, but he could not find it.

But he did not need to see her to know who she was. He could smell her – that familiar, comforting scent of engine oil and old baby powder. Angel. She was entirely still, with her head resting on her arms, crossed over the hospital bed mattress.

His heart ached when he realized she must have fallen asleep sitting at his bedside.

Angel's face was concealed by a curtain of her hair, falling around her face in greasy wefts. He wondered how long she had been there beside him.

His only remaining eye scanned the darkness. He told himself it was just a precaution, that he would be a shit ninja if he didn't. But really, he was looking for her. April. Though he knew better than to call out her name. Instead he reached for Angel's hand, and ran a finger softly over hers. Her skin was so warm, and so soft. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and to his surprise, she squeezed back.

"Hey," she said sleepily.

"Hey," he cleared his throat. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake ya."

"S'okay," her words were still slurring together in her exhaustion. Angel looked up at him, sweeping her hair back from her face. This was the first time she was close enough for him to see the dark circles beneath her eyes. "How you doin'?"

"Better," he lied.

Lines from the creases of the sheets streaked across her face, but still she smiled at him. He was glad that he could give her a reason to smile. Even if it was a lie.

Angel exhaled, thanking God in Spanish as she buried her face in her hands. And then she said something else. Something Raphael could not quite hear.

"You're, uh," he cleared his throat. "You're gonna have to speak up, Ange. I can't hear so good right now."

Her eyes met his gaze in the dark. "I thought you died," she said, her voice louder, teetering between reason and hysteria. "And she just wanted to leave you there!"

Raphael's face fell as he watched her, clawing at the scratchy sheets of his hospital bed. The fabric crumpled in her fists. She hunched over the bed, and strands of hair fell across her face in greasy streaks. She probably hadn't washed it in days. Had she been here, with him, the whole time?

"She said it was too high risk," Angel muttered, casting her gaze to the ground. "Bitch."

"But you came anyway," Raphael said somberly.

She nodded.

"That was stupid," the turtle grunted. "Didn't I tell ya not to do anythin' stupid in my note?"

Angel's eyes narrowed at him. "No," she retorted bluntly.

"Well I shoulda," Raphael said, this time a little more gently. He sighed. "C'mere."

Angel hoisted herself up and padded across the scratchy standard-issue sheets towards him. She laid down, wedging herself between him and the rails of the hospital bed. He couldn't imagine it was comfortable for her, but he was grateful that she was there. The turtle slowly raised his arm and wrapped it around her. He was slow, and sore, but he wanted her close. She rested her head gently on his chest. He could feel the weight of her on his bony armor plating, like an anchor. There was nothing more comforting. He had been free floating so long, he had forgotten what it was like to be tethered to anything anymore.

"If I'd gotten there earlier we mighta," she paused, and he thought he heard her draw a shuddering breath. "We mighta been able to save your eye."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Raphael said, trying his best to sound soothing. "I'll be okay," he said. He hoped it was true. He didn't want to lie to her anymore. "Thanks," he said, his voice quiet. He wanted to say more; to tell her he owed her everything. But that single word was all he could manage.

"Fuck you," she muttered, though she did not move from his side. "Fuck you for that _bullshit_ letter," she stirred in irritation. She was quiet for a moment. He couldn't tell if he was still hearing the blowback from the explosion, or her sniffling beside him. "And fuck you for thinking I would just let you kill yourself like that."

"Fair enough," the turtle said, adjusting his weight, making a pointless attempt to get comfortable with the old, lumpy pillows behind his neck.

Raphael pulled Angel close, as close as he could, and he closed his eye. His one eye.

The turtle's shoulders sagged as he attempted to relax. A monotonous undercurrent of pain coursed through him. He was sure he was riddled with shrapnel; he could feel it in the sharp pain that heralded its presence whenever he shifted his weight. His entire face ached, despite whatever chemical cocktail they had him on. He took a deep breath, and his chest rose and fell beneath his plastron. Even if he was still living on borrowed time, by some miracle he had managed to sidestep his death-sentence. For now.

And she was here, with him. Now.

And that was all that mattered.

Just as Raphael's breath began to slow, falling into the rhythmic promise of sleep, he felt her shifting beside him. The turtle forced his remaining eye to open, watching as Angel rose and turned to face him. Her eyes met his. But they were not the fierce eyes he knew. They were not her eyes. In the low-light, her eyes were so dark they were almost black. Her eyes were endless black pools in the dark, and he was losing himself in them. And there was nothing to be found there but fear.

"We have to leave," her voice grave.

"We can't just leave April," the turtle replied gruffly. "She needs us." He almost said I, not we. _I can't leave her_. But he knew better. Angel was already furious. It would be stupid to throw gasoline on that fire.

"Yes we can," Angel said, her voice unwavering in her determination. "She almost got you killed."

"It was an accident!" Raphael snapped. "Christ, Angel. Do you really think April would try to get me killed on purpose?"

She stared back at him, seemingly unfazed by his outburst.

"Dia's sister Meg is in R and D," Angel's eyes drifted away from him to the wall, to the depths of the dark. "She said they weren't finished testing that payload, Raphael."

Raphael's brow furrowed, and a sharp pain coursed through his face. He tried not to flinch and failed. If what she was saying was true, what some woman he had never even met was saying was true, then April had sent him into battle with an untested, unstable weapon. The odds hadn't exactly been in his favor when she had first put this mission on the table, but he never thought - a ragged breath hitched in his throat. He never thought April would ever intentionally put him in harm's way. The turtle frowned. Maybe it wasn't about intention. Maybe she just thought he was her last resort.

Maybe she just wanted all of this to be over, like he did.

With every thought spiraling into every miserable possibility, his heart grew heavier. It became a weight in his chest, dragging everything else down with it. He had tried to help her. He had been willing to sacrifice everything. But she wasn't even April anymore. She hadn't been herself since Casey's death.

None of them had.

"Promise me that we're getting out of here when you're better," Angel urged him. Shadows danced across her face in the dark. " _Promise."_

The battered turtle closed his only remaining eye, too tired to argue. He sighed. If only Leo could see him now. That'd be real rich. Raphael exhaled. "Ange, I'm so doped up I couldn't even decide what t' have for breakfast, much less whether to leave the only safe place we got left."

She squeezed his hand in the dark. "But it isn't safe."

He could barely hear her, but he knew what she said was true. Nowhere was safe. Not anymore. The turtle put his other hand over hers. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay. But he didn't have the strength to lie anymore. He tried to take a deep breath, but it just sent a sharp bolt of pain through his torso. Everything hurt.

"It ain't like I didn't know the risks," Raphael said. His voice sounded hollow in his own ears; empty and tinny above the relentless buzz left behind by the blowback of the explosion that nearly took his life. "I knew the risks. It's just," he paused, knowing only that what he was about to say would make her furious. "I just didn't give a damn."

Angel glared at him. "If you weren't laid up I would slap the shit outta you," she muttered as she slumped back into the bed beside Raphael.

"Yeah, well, it's true. I didn't care until – "

"Until what?" Angel snapped back, fidgeting in agitation at his side.

"Until I fell in love with you," he opened his eye, glanced down at her through the darkness. "That's what."

Silence hung between them for a moment, suspended in could almost see it in the low-light. For the first time since they had retreated below, it didn't feel empty. Or lonely. Or sad. It just was. There was almost something comforting about sharing the silence with her.

"You're full of shit," Angel finally said. Her words were flat, but Raphael thought he felt her lips turn up in a smile against his plastron. "You loved me all along." She paused, as if she was considering her next words carefully. "Just like I loved you."

"'S that so?" Raphael asked, sleepily. Exhaustion gripped him like ice on the asphalt after a storm that had gone on for far too long.

"Yeah," Angel huffed, and he felt her breath, hot on his chest. "Your head was just too far up your own ass to see it," she finished.

The turtle chuckled then, and the low, gravelly sound rumbled from the depths of his chest. He squeezed his arm around her, just a little tighter.

Raphael's only good eye shut slowly, feeling unnaturally heavy in his sedated state. Angel shifted by his side and the warmth of her skin felt so damn good against his.

And for the first time, the darkness and the silence of below didn't feel so heavy.


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue:

The sun was rising, spilling blood red light over the black mountains before them. They had been riding all night, and it almost felt as if the road would stretch on forever.

The city had vanished behind them in the night, and they rode the lonely highway north until dense cityscapes and roads and abandoned gas stations faded into the treeline. Two lone motorcycles tore up the empty road, the silence ripped by their passing. The fading roar of their engines was the only trace they left behind them.

Raphael rode clad only in a helmet, his leather bomber jacket rippling from the drag of the wind. His sai, secured by the softened leather of the belt around his waist, tapped at the sides of his thighs; his constant companions. Behind him, a rider in black followed. Raphael trained his only remaining eye on the road as the wind tore over him, merciless and cold. Winter was in the air.

It felt incredible.

The turtle gave a sharp two-fingered hand signal to the rider behind him and began to slow his bike, guiding it to the side of the road. The other rider mirrored his movements, and he saw their bike slowing in his rear-view mirrors.

The turtle glided off the empty road and pushed his kick stand out from under him with his heel. Slowly, so not to agitate the eye that was no longer there, he removed his helmet. He curtly adjusted his new bandana, tugging it back into place. His former bandana had been blown away; this one was made of a taken Foot Clan flag, with a few meager stitches marking where his left eye once was. When his bandana was back in place, he leaned back to take in everything around them. It was all so crisp - none of the haze or smog of the end of the world had found this place. Before the sun had come up, he could even see the stars.

Casey Jones' bike rumbled to a halt beside his. Angel maneuvered it expertly, but not perfectly. She was tall, but not as tall as Casey. The bike had required a few adjustments. It hadn't delayed their departure more than a few days.

They left with no announcement of their intentions. There had been no goodbyes. Though Raphael was sure their midnight run had not gone unnoticed. He had glanced over his shoulder, to give one final wave to the closed circuit cameras he knew Michelangelo was monitoring before he put his helmet on and mounted his bike. Raphael knew April would see the video too. Eventually. But he tried not to think about that.

Angel just got on her bike and never looked back.

They sped through the ruins of New York City that night, their bikes roaring down empty roads stretching on into the night, black and endless under the choking grip of the pollution spewing from the Shredder's manufacturing work camps in the distance. Raphael's hands had gripped his handlebars so hard his knuckles went white, the palms of his hands growing clammier with every turn, every corner, every blind spot until they were out. He half expected to be blown off the Brooklyn Bridge as they flew across it, narrowly avoiding rusted out cars and the debris of lives no longer lived scattered across the concrete. But they weren't.

It was not until the city became little more than another shadow in his rear-view mirror that Raphael began to relax. His shoulders slumped beneath his bomber jacket, and his breath slowed, but he kept on riding - into the night. In time, the night had become a new day. And here they were.

In one fluid motion, Angel threw the kick-stand down in the dirt, pulling the black helmet that shielded her face off. She shook her head and her ponytail escaped her helmet, spilling over her shoulder. The beginning of a smile jerked at the edge of his mouth. how does this make him feel? "How you doin'?" Her eyes fell upon his face, and he saw how they creased with concern for him.

"Fine," he said, trying to ignore the lingering ache in his face where his eye used to be. "You?"

"Tired."Her shoulders slumped in her black body armor. She tugged her riding gloves off finger by finger, then tossed them onto the pile of supplies strapped to the back of her bike. When her hands were free, she rubbed her face. Then she looked up at him with weary eyes. Raphael felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" Angel huffed, her warm brown cheeks tinged pink from hours of confinement beneath her helmet.

"Maybe I just like lookin' at you," he said, leaning forward and crossing his arms over the handlebars.

"Oh shut up," she looked at the ground, her dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks as she did so.

The flirtatious display of false modesty was cute. Real cute. A grin cracked Raphael's face. She was pretending not to like it, but she did. She loved it. He watched as she preened herself, undoing her ponytail, unleashing a cascade of long purple hair over the breastplate of her body armor. Even exhausted, she was still so damn beautiful.

His gaze did not go unnoticed, and Angel smiled at him with tired eyes. Though he could see the exhaustion creeping in around the edges of her, there was something else there, too. Something he almost couldn't place. The turtle cocked his head to the side as he puzzled over it. And then, all of a sudden, he figured it out. Angel looked peaceful.

Raphael didn't know what that felt like, but he thought he might be starting to get the idea.

"How far do we wanna go?" Angel asked, tugging her ponytail back, tight atop her head.

Raphael leaned back on the seat of his bike and shrugged. "Until we run outta gas?"

She shot him a wry grin. "That is definitely _not_ a good idea."

"Yeah well," Raphael cast his eyes to the craggy black mountains. "I never was the one with the good ideas."

The smile faded from Raphael's face, and his expression settled into something much more somber. As if she could tell that his thoughts were walking a lonely road to his lost brother, Angel swung her leg over her bike and walked over to him. The earth felt her footsteps; he could hear the dirt crunching beneath her boots. If his hearing hadn't been irrevocably damaged by the blast that fateful night, he might have even been able to hear the water running over rocks in a creekbed just out of sight. Here, there was dirt. And grass. Water. Things still lived.

Behind her, the sun rose over the mountains, its red gold light spilling over everything. And she took his head in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his. Raphael closed his tired eye and smiled; for the first time in years, he felt the sun on his skin, and it was everything he dreamed it might be. Gently, slowly, softly - she kissed him, and he knew. The days to come would not be easy. But now, they had one another.

And Raphael knew that as long as they were still alive - there was always hope.

There had to be.


	12. Post Script

First and foremost, I need to thank Princessebee, who not only beta-read this story, but was my constant cheerleader throughout the entire process - from concept to finish. Thanks babe.

I started this story when I was in a rut with Precious (Fragile) Things, needing to shake things up. Write some Raphael. I wanted to write a love letter to Raphael, Angel, and how beautifully the 2K3 series channeled the introspective and somber nature of the Mirage comics – especially with the Same As It Never Was Continuity. But it became so much more. Much of Raphael's grief in this story stems from my own from losing my best friend to cancer. And to be honest, this story was written during the process of my PTSD diagnosis. Days to Come became not only a love letter to Raphael and TMNT, but an incredibly cathartic experience in the beginning my treatment and the process finding my own reasons to keep going. Suffice to say, this story is intensely personal, and I very much appreciate all of you who read, reviewed, and followed along. It means the world. THANK YOU! I know it was heavy, but I hope you enjoyed!

xx

t-punx


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